Salvatore: Fifty Shades of Salvatore as told by Stefan
by redneckduckling
Summary: the latest book but vampire diaries style. stelena all the way. posted because i was asked to. enjoy :)
1. Chapter 1

Monday May 9, 2011

I have three cars. They go fast across the floor. So fast. One is red. One is yellow. I like the green one. It's the best. Mommy likes then, too. I like when Mommy plays with the cars and me. The red is her best. Today she sits on the couch staring at the wall. The green care flies in to the rug. The red car follows. Then the yellow. Crash! But Mommy doesn't see. I aim the green car at her feet. But the green car goes under the couch. I can't reach it. My hand it too big. For the gap. Mommy doesn't see. I want my green car. But Mommy stays on the couch staring at the wall. Mommy. My car. She doesn't hear me. Mommy. I pull her hand and she lies back and closes her eyes. Not now, Maggot. Not now, she says. My green car stays under the couch. It's always under the couch. I can see it. But I can't reach it. My green car is fuzzy. Covered in gray fur and dirt. I want it back. But I can't reach it. I can never reach it. My green car is lost. Lost. And I can never play with it again.

I open my eyes and my dream fades in the early-morning light. What the hell was that about? I grasp at the fragments as the recede, but fail to catch any of them.

Dismissing it, like I do most mornings, I climb out of bed and find some newly laundered sweats in my walk-in closet. Outside, a leaden sky promises rain, and I'm not in the mood to be rained on during my run today. I head upstairs to my gym, switch on the TV for the morning business news, and step onto the treadmill.

My thoughts stray to the day. I've nothing but meetings, through I'm seeing my personal trainer later for a workout at my office-Bastille is always a welcome challenge.

Maybe I should call Katherine?

Yeah. Maybe we can do dinner later this week.

I stop the treadmill, breathless, and head down to the shower to start another monotonous day.

"Tomorrow," I mutter, dismissing Claude Bastille as he stand at the threshold of my office.

"Golf, this week, Salvatore." Bastille grins with easy arrogance, knowing that his victory on the golf course is assured.

I scowl at him as he turns and leaves. His parting words rub salt into my wounds because, despite my heroic attempts during out workout today, my personal trainer has kicked my ass. Bastille is the only one who can beat me, and now he wants another pound of flesh on the golf course. I detest golf, but so much business is done of the fairways, I have to endure his lessons there, too… and though I hate to admit it, playing against Bastille does improve my game.

As I stare out the window at the Seattle skyline, the familiar ennui seeps unwelcome into my consciousness. My mood is as flat and gray as the weather. My days are blending together with no distinction, and I need some kind of diversion. I've worked all weekend, and now, in the continued confines of my office, I'm restless. I shouldn't feel this way, not after several bouts with Bastille. But I do.

I frown. The sobering truth is that the one thing to capture my interest recently has been my decision to send two freighters of cargo to Sudan. This reminds me–Ros is supposed to come back to me with numbers and logistics. What the hell is keeping her? I check my schedule and reach for the phone.

Damn. I have to endure an interview with the persistent Miss Kavanagh for the WSU student newspaper. Why the hell did I agree to this? I loathe interviews-insane questions from ill-informed, envious people intent of probing my private life. And she's a student. The phones buzzes.

"Yes," I snap at Andrea, as if she's to blame. At least I can keep this interview short.

"Miss Elena Gilbert is here to see you, Mr. Salvatore."

"Gilbert? I was expecting Katherine Kavanagh."

"It's Miss Elena Gilbert who's here, sir."

I hate the unexpected. "Show her in."

Well, well… Miss Kavanagh is unavailable. I know her father, Eamon, the owner of Kavanagh Media. We've done business together, and he seems like a shrewd operator and a rational human being. This interview is a favor to him – one that I mean to cash in on later when it suits me. And I have to admit I was vaguely curious about this daughter, interested to see if the apple has fallen far from the tree.

A commotion at the door brings me to my feet as a whirl of long chestnut hair, pale limbs, and brown boots dives headfirst into my office. Repressing my natural annoyance at such clumsiness, I hurry over to the girl who has just landed on her hands and knees on the floor. Clasping slim shoulders, I help her to her feet.

Clear, embarrassed eyes meet mine and halt me in my tracks. They are the most extraordinary color, powder blue, and guileless, and for one awful moment, I think she can see right through me and I'm left… exposed. The thought is unnerving, so I dismiss it immediately.

She has a small, sweet face that blushing now, an innocent pale rose. I wonder briefly if all her skin is like that–flawless–and what it would look like pink and warmed from the bite of a cane.

Damn. I stop my wayward thoughts, alarmed at their direction. What the hell are you thinking, Salvatore? This girl is much too young. She gapes at me, and I resist rolling my eyes. Yeah, yeah, baby, it's just a face, and its only skin deep. I need to dispel that admiring look from those eyes but let's have some fun in the process!

"Miss Kavanagh. I'm Stefan Salvatore. Are you all right? Would you like to sit?

There's that blush again. In command once more, I study her. She's quite attractive – slight, pale, with a mane of dark hair barely contained by a hair tie.

A brunette.

Yeah, she's attractive. I extend my hand as she stutters the beginning of a mortified apology and places her hand in mine. Her skin is cool and soft, but her handshake is surprisingly firm.

"Miss Kavanagh is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don't mind, Mr. Salvatore." Her voice is quiet with a hesitant musicality, and she blinks erratically, long lashes fluttering.

Unable to keep the amusement from my voice as I recall her less-than-elegant entrance into my office, I ask who she is.

"Elena Gilbert. I'm studying English literature with Kate, um… Katherine… um… Miss Kavanagh, at WSU Vancouver."

A bashful, bookish type, eh? She looks it: poorly dressed, her slight frame hidden beneath a shapeless sweater, an A-line brown skirt, and utilitarian boots. Does she have any sense of style at all? She looks nervously around my office – everywhere but at me, I note, with amused irony.

How can this young woman be a journalist? She doesn't have an assertive bone in her body. She's flustered, meek… submissive. Bemused at my inappropriate thoughts, I shake my head and wonder if first impressions are reliable. Muttering something, appraising my office paintings. Before I can stop myself, I find I'm explaining them. "A local artist, Trouton."

"They're lovely. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary," she says dreamily, lost in the exquisite, fine artistry of Trouton's work." Her profile is delicate–an upturned nose, soft, full lips–and in her words she has captured my sentiments exactly. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary. It's a keen observation. Miss Gilbert is bright.

I agree and watch, fascinated, as that flush creeps slowly over her skin once more. As I sit down opposite her, I try to bridle my thoughts. She fishes some crumpled sheets of paper and a digital recorder out of her large bag. She's all thumbs, dropping the damned thing twice on my Bauhaus coffee table. It's obvious she's never done this before, but for some reason I can't fathom, I find it amusing. Under normal circumstances her maladroitness would irritate the hell out of me, but now I hide my smile beneath my index finger and resist the urge to set it up for her myself.

As she fumbles and grows more and more flustered, it occurs to me that I could refine her skills with the aid of a riding crop. Adeptly used, it can bring even the most skittish to heel. The errant thought makes me shift in my chair. She peeks up at me and bites down on her full bottom lip. Fuck! How did I not notice how inviting that mouth is?

"S-Sorry, I'm not used to this."

I can tell, baby, but right now I don't give a damn because I can't take my eyes off your mouth.

"Take all the time you need, Miss Gilbert." I need another moment to marshal my wayward thoughts.

Salvatore… stop this, now.

"Do you mind if I record your answers?" she asks, her face candid and expectant.

I want to laugh. "After you've taken so much trouble to set up the recorder, you ask me now?"

She blinks, her eyes large and lost for a moment, and I'm overcome by an unfamiliar twinge of guilt.

Stop being such a shit, Salvatore. "No, I don't mind." I don't want to be responsible for that look.

"Did Kate, I mean Miss Kavanagh, explain what the interview was for?"

"Yes, to appear in the graduation issue of the student newspaper, as I shall be giving the commencement address at this year's graduation ceremony." Why the hell I agreed to do that, I don't know. Sam in PR tells me that WSU's environmental sciences department needs the publicity in order to attract additional funding to match the grant I've given them, and Sam will go to any lengths for media exposure.

Miss Gilbert blinks once more, as if this is news to her – and she looks disapproving. Hasn't she done any background work for this interview? She should know this. The thought cools my blood. Its… displeasing, not what I expect from someone who's imposing on my time.

"Good. I have some questions, Mr. Salvatore." She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, distracting me from my annoyance.

"I thought you might," I say dryly. Let's make her squirm. Obligingly, she does, then pulls herself upright and squares her small shoulders. She means business. Leaning forward, she press the start button on the recorder and frowns as she glances down at her crumpled notes.

"You're very young to a=have amassed such an empire. To what to you owe your success?"

Surely she can do better than this. What a dull question. Not one iota of originality. It's disappointing. I trot out my usual response about having exceptional people working for me. People I trust, insofar as I trust anyone, and pay well – blah, blah, blah… but Miss Gilbert the simple fact is, I'm brilliant at what I do. For me it's like falling off a log. Buying ailing, mismanaged companies and fixing them, keeping some or, if they're really broken, stripping their assets and selling them off to the highest bidder. It's simply a question of knowing the difference between the two, and invariably it comes down to the people in charge. To succeed in business you need good people, and I can judge a person, better than most.

"Maybe you're just lucky," she says quietly.

Lucky? A frisson of annoyance runs through me. Lucky? How dare she? She looks unassuming and quiet, but this question? No one has ever suggested that I was lucky. Hard work, bringing people with me, keeping a close watch on them, and second-guessing them if I need to, and if they aren't up to the task, ditching them. That's what I do, and I do it well. It's nothing to do with luck! Well, to hell with that. Flaunting my erudition, I quote the words of Andrew Carnegie, my favorite industrialist. "The growth and development of people is the highest calling of leadership."

"You sound like a control freak," she says, and she's perfectly serious.

What the hell? Maybe she can see through me.

"Control" is my middle name, sweetheart.

I glare at her, hoping to intimidate her. "Oh, I exercise control in all things, Miss Gilbert." And I'd like to exercise it over you, right here, right now/

That attractive blush steals across her face, and she bites that lips again. I ramble on, trying to distract myself from her mouth.

"Besides, immense power is acquired by assuring yourself, in your secret reveries, that you were born to control things."

"Do you feel that you have immense power?" she asks in a soft, soothing voice, but she arches a delicate brow with a look that conveys her censure. Is she deliberately trying to goad me? It is her questions, her attitude, or the fact that I find her attractive that's pissing me off? My annoyance grows.

"I employ over forty thousand people. That gives me a certain sense of responsibility – power, if you will. If I were to decide I was no longer interested in the telecommunications business and sell, twenty thousand people would struggle to make their mortgage payments after a month or so."

Her moth pops open at my response. That's more like it. Suck it up, baby. I feel my equilibrium returning.

"Don't you have a board to answer to?"

"I own my company. I don't have to answer to a board." She should know that.

"And do you have any interests outside of your work?" she continues hastily, correctly gauging my reaction. She knows I'm pissed, and for some inexplicable reason. This pleases me.

"I have varied interests, Miss Gilbert. Very varied." Images of her in assorted positions in my playroom flash through my mind: shackled on the cross, spread-eagled on the four-poster, splayed over the whipping bench. And behold – there's that blush again. It's like a defense mechanism.

"But if you work so hard, what do you do to chill out?"

"Chill out?" those words out of her smart mouth sound odd but amusing. Besides, when do I get time to chill out? She has no idea what I do. But she looks at me again with those ingenuous big eyes, and to my surprise I find myself considering her question. What do I do to chill out? Sailing, flying, fucking… testing the limits of attractive brunettes like her, and bringing them to heel… The thought makes me shift in my seat, but I answer her smoothly, omitting a few favorite hobbies.

"You invest in manufacturing. Why, specifically?"

"I like to build things. I like to know how things work: what makes things tick, how to construct and deconstruct. And I have a love of ships. What can I say?" They transport food around the planet.

"That sounds like your heart talking, rather than logic and facts." Heart? Me? Oh no, baby.

My heart was savaged beyond recognition a long time ago. "Possibly. Though there are people who'd say I don't have a heart."

"Why would they say that?"

"Because they know me well." I give her a wry smile. In fact, no one knows me that well, except maybe Katherine. I wonder what she would make of little Miss Gilbert here. The girl is a mass of contradictions" shy, awkward, obviously bright, and arousing as hell.

Yes, okay, I admit it. I find her arousing.

She recites the next question by route. "Would your friends say you're easy to get to know?"  
"I'm a very private person. I go a long way to protect my privacy. I don't often give interviews." Doing what I do, living the life I've chosen, I need my privacy.

"Why did you agree to do this one?"

"Because I'm a benefactor of the university, and for all intents and purposes, I couldn't get Miss Kavanagh off my back. She badgered and badgered my PR people, and I admire that kind of tenacity." But I'm glad it's you who turned up and not her.

"You also invest in farming technologies. Why are you interested in this area?"

"We can't eat money, Miss Gilbert, and there are too many people on this planet who don't have enough food." I stare at her poker-faced.

"That sounds very philanthropic. Is that something you feel passionately about? Feeding the world's poor?" she regards me with a puzzled look, as if I'm a conundrum, but there's no way I want her seeing my dark soul. This is not an area open to discussion. Move it along, Salvatore.

"Its shrewd business," I mutter, feigning boredom, and I imagine fucking that mouth to distract myself from all the thoughts of hunger. Yes, her mouth needs training, and I imagine her on her knees before me. Now, that thought is appealing.

She recites her next question, dragging me away from my fantasy. "Do you have a philosophy? If so, what is it?

"I don't have a philosophy as such. Maybe a guiding principle – Carnegie's: 'A man who acquires the ability to take full possession of his own mind my take possession of anything else to which he is justly entitled.' I'm very singular, driven. I like control – of myself and those around me."

"So you want to possess thing?"

Yes, baby. You, for one. I frown, startled by the thought.

"I want to deserve to possess them, but yes, bottom line, I do."

"You sound like the ultimate consumer." Her voice is tinged with disapproval, pissing me off again.

"I am."

She sounds like a rich kid who's had all she ever wanted, but as I take a closer look at her clothes – she's dressed in clothes from some cheap store like Old Navy of H&M – I know that isn't it. She hasn't grown up in an affluent household.

I could really take care of you.

Where the hell did that thought come from?

Although, now that I consider it, I do need a new sub. It's been, what – two months since Susannah? And her I am, salivating over this woman. I try an agreeable smile. Nothing wrong with consumption – after all, it drives what's left of the American economy.

"You were adopted. How much do you think that's shaped the way you are?

What does this have to do with the price of oil? What a ridiculous question. If id stayed with the crack whore, I'd probably be dead. I blow her off with a non-answer, trying to keep my voice level, but she pushes me, demanding to know how old I was when I was adopted.

Shut her down, Salvatore!

My tone goes cold. "That's a matter of public record, Miss Gilbert."

She should know this, too. Now she looks contrite as she tuck and escaped strand of hair behind her ear. Good.

"You've had to sacrifice family life for your work."

"That's not a question," I snap.

She startles, clearly embarrassed, but she has the grace to apologize and she rephrases the question: "Have you had to sacrifice family life for your work?"

What do I want with a family? "I have a family. I have a brother, a sister, and two loving parents. I'm not interested in extend my family beyond that."

"Are you gay, Mr. Salvatore?" What the hell!

I cannot believe she's said that out loud! Ironically, the question even my own family won't ask. How dare she! I have a sudden urge to drag her out of her seat, bend her over my knee, spank her, and then fuck her over my desk with her hands tied behind her back. That would answer her ridiculous question. I take a deep calming breath, to my vindictive delight, she appears to be mortified by her own question.

"No, Elena, I'm not." I raise my eyebrows, but keep my expression impassive. Elena. It's a lovely name. I like the way my tongue rolls around it.

"I apologize. It's um… written here." She's at it again with the hair behind the ear. Obviously a nervous habit.

Are these not her questions? I ask her and she pales. Damn, she really is attractive, in an understated sort of way.

"Err… no. Kate – Miss Kavanagh – she complied the questions."

"Are you colleagues on the student paper?"

"No. she's my roommate."

No wonder she's all over the place. I scratch my chin, debating whether or not to give her a really hard time.

"Did you volunteer to do this interview?" I ask, and I'm rewarded with her submissive look: she's nervous about my reaction. I like the effect I have on her.

"I was drafted. She's not well." Her voice is soft.

"That explains a great deal.

There's a knock at the door, and Andrea appears.

"Mr. Salvatore, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes."

"We're not finished here, Andrea. Please cancel my next meeting."

Andrea gapes at me, looking confused. I stare at her. Out! Now! I'm busy with little Miss Gilbert here.

"Very well, Mr. Salvatore," she says, recovering quickly, and turning on her heel, she leaves us.

I turn my attention back to the intriguing, frustrating creature on my couch, "Where were we, Miss Gilbert?"

Please don't let me keep you from anything."

Oh no, baby. It's my turn now. I want to know if there are any secrets to uncover behind that lovely face.

"I want to know about you. I think that's only fair." As I lean back and press my fingers to my lips, her eyes flick to my mouth and she swallows. Oh yes – the usual effect. And it is gratifying to know she isn't completely oblivious of my charms.

"There's not much to know," she says, her blush returning.

I'm intimidating her. "What are your plans after you graduate?"

"I haven't made any plans, Mr. Salvatore. I just need to get through my final exams."

"We run an excellent internship program her."

What possessed me ever to say that? It's against the rules, Salvatore. Never fuck the staff… But you're not fucking this girl.

She looks surprised, and her teeth sink into that lip again. Why is that so arousing? "Oh. I'll bear that in mind," she replies. "Though I'm not sure I'd fit in here."

"Why do you say that?" I ask. What's wrong with my company?

"It's obvious isn't it?"

"Not to me." I'm confounded by her response. She's flustered again as she reaches for the recorder.

Shit, she's going. Mentally I run through my schedule for that afternoon – there is nothing that wonts keep. "Would you like me to show you around?"

"I'm sure you're far too busy, Mr. Salvatore, and I do have a long drive."

"You're driving back to Vancouver?" I glance out the window. Its one hell of a drive, and it's raining, she shouldn't be driving in this weather, but can't forbid her. The thought irritates me. "Well you'd better drive carefully." My voice is sterner than I intend. She fumbles with the recorder. She want out of my office, and to my surprise, I don't want her to go.

"Did you get everything you need?" I ask in a transparent effort to prolong her stay.

"Yes, sir." She says quietly. Her response floors me – the way those words sound, coming out of that smart mouth – and briefly I imagine that mouth at my beck and call.

"Thank you for the interview, Mr. Salvatore."

"The pleasure's been all mine," I respond – truthfully, because I haven't been this fascinated by anyone for a while. The thought is unsettling. She stands and I extend my hand, eager to touch her.

"Until we meet again, Miss Gilbert." My voice is low as she places her hand in mine. Yes, I want to flog and fuck this girl in my playroom. Have her bound and wanting… needing me, trusting me. I swallow.

It ain't going to happen, Salvatore.

"Mr. Salvatore." She nods and withdraws her hand quickly, too quickly.

I can't let her go like this. It's obvious she's desperate to leave. It's irritating, but inspiration hits me as I open my office door.

"Just enduring you make it through the door," I quip.

Her lips form a hard line. "That's very considerate, Mr. Salvatore," she snaps

Miss Gilbert bites back! I grin behind her as she exits, and follow her out. Both Andrea and Olivia look up in shock. Yeah, yeah. I'm just seeing the girl out.

"Did you have a coat?" I ask.

"A jacket."

I give Olivia a pointed look and she immediately leaps up to retrieve a navy jacket, passing it to me with her usual simpering expression. Christ, Olivia is annoying – mooning over me all the time.

Hmm. The jacket is worn and cheap. Miss Elena Gilbert should be better dressed. I hold it up for her, and as I pull it over her slim shoulders, I touch the skin at the base of her neck. She stills at the contact and pales

Yes! She is affected by me. The knowledge is immensely pleasing. Strolling over to the elevator, I press the call button while she stands fidgeting beside me.

Oh, I could stop your fidgeting, baby.

The doors open and she scurries in, then turns to face me. She's more than attractive. I would go as far as to say she's beautiful.

"Elena," I say, in good-bye.

"Stefan," she answers, her voice soft. And the elevator doors close, leaving my name hanging in the air between us, sounding odd and unfamiliar, but sexy as hell.

I need to know more about this girl.

"Andrea," I bark as I return to my office. "Get me Welch on the line, now."

As I sit at my desk and wait for the call, I look at the paintings on the wall of my office, and Miss Gilbert's words drift back to me. "Raising the ordinary to extraordinary." She could so easily have been describing herself.

My phone buzzes. "I have Mr. Welch on the line for you."

"Put him through."

"Yes, sir."

"Welch, I need a background check."


	2. Chapter 2

Saturday, May 14, 2011

ELENA MARIE GILBERT

DOB:

June 22, 1992 Mystic Falls, VA

Address:

1114 SW Green Street, Apartment 7, Haven Heights, Vancouver, WA 98888

Mobile No:

360-959-4352

Social Security No:

987-65-4320

Bank:

Wells Fargo Bank, Vancouver, WA:

Acct. No.: 309361: $683.16 balance

Occupation:

Undergraduate Student

WSU Vancouver College of Arts and Sciences English

Major GPA:

4.0

Prior Education:

Montesano Jr. Sr. High School

SAT Score:

2150

Employment:

Clayton's Hardware Store, NW Vancouver Drive, Portland, OR (part-time)

Father:

Franklin A. Lambert, DOB: Sept. 1, 1969, Deceased Sept. 11, 1989

Mother: Carla May Wilks Adams, DOB: July 18, 1970

m. Frank Lambert March 1, 1989, widowed Sept. 11, 1989

m. Raymond Gilbert June 6, 1990, divorced July 12, 2006

m. Stephen M. Morton Aug. 16, 2006, divorced Jan. 31, 2007

m. Bob Adams April 6, 2009

Political Affiliations:

None Found

Religious Affiliations:

None Found

Sexual Orientation:

Not Known

Relationships:

None Indicated at Present

I pore over the executive summary for the hundredth time since I received it two days ago, looking for some insight into the enigmatic Miss Elena Marie Gilbert. I cannot get the damned woman out of my mind, and its seriously beginning to piss me off. This past week, during particularly dull meetings, I've found myself replaying the interview in my head. Her fumbling fingers on the recorder, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the lip biting. Yes. The lip biting gets me every time.

And now here I am, parked outside Clayton's, a mom-and-pop hardware store on the outskirts of Portland where she works.

Youre a fool , Salvatore. Why are you here?

I knew it would lead to this. All week… I knew I'd have to see her again. I'd known it since she uttered my name in the elevator. I'd tried to resist. I'd waited five days, five tedious days, to see if I'd forget about her.

And I don't do waiting. I hate waiting… for anyting.

I've never pursued a woman before. The women I've had understood what I expected of tehm. My fear now is that Miss Gilbert is just too young and that she wont be interested in what I have to offer. Will she? Will she even make a good submissive? I shake my head. So here I am, an ass, sitting in a suburban parking lot in a dreary part of Portland.

Her background check has produced noting remarkable – except the last fact, which has been at the forefront of my mind. It's the reason I'm here. Why no boyfriend, Miss Gilbert? Sexual orientation unknown – perhaps she's gay. I snort, thinking that unlikely. I recall the question she asked during the interview, her acute embarrassment, the way her skin flushed a pale rose… I've been suffering from these lascivious thoughts since I met her.

That's why you're here.

I'm itching to see her again – those blue eyes have haunted me, even in my dreams. I haven't mentioned her to Flynn, and I'm glad because I'm now behaving like a stalker. Perhaps I should let him know. No. I don't want him hounding me about his latest solution-based-therapy shit. I just need a distraction, and right now the only distraction I want is the one working as a sales clerk in a hardware store.

You've come all this way. Lets see if little Miss Gilbert is as appealing as you remember.

Showtime, Salvatore.

A bell chimes a flat electronic not as I walk into the store. It's much bigger than it looks from the outside, and although it's almost lunchtime the place is quiet, for a Saturday. There are aisles and aisles of the usual junk you'd expect. I'd forgotten the possibilities that a hardware store could present to someone like me. I maily shop online for my needs, but while I'm here, maybe I'll stock up on a few items: Velcro, split rings – Yeah. I'll find the delectable Miss Gilbert and have some fun.

It takes me all of three seconds to spot her. She's hunched over the counter, staring intently at a computer screen and picking at her lunch – a bagel. Absentmindedly, she wipes a crumb from the corner of her lips and into her mouth and sucks on her finger. My cock twitches in response.

What am I, fourteen?

My body's reaction is irritating. Maybe this will stop if I fetter, fuck, and flog her… and not necessarily in that order. Yeah. That's what I need,

She is thoroughly absorbed by her task, and it gives me an opportunity to study her. Salacious thoughts aside, she's attractive, seriously attractive. I've remembered her well.

She looks up and freezes. Its as unnerving as the first time I met her. She pins me with a discerning stare – shocked, I think – and I don't know if this a good response or a bad response.

"Miss Gilbert. What a pleasant surprise."

"Mr. Salvatore," she says, breathy and flustered. Ah, a good response.

"I was in the area. I need to stock up on a few things. It's a pleasure to see you again." A real pleasure. She's dressed in a tight T-shirt and heans, not the shapeless shit she was earlier earlier this week. She's all long legs, narrow waist, and perfect tits. Her lips are still parted in surprise, and I have to resist to tip her chin up and close her mouth. I've flown from Seattle just to see you, and the way you look right now, it was really worth the journey.

"Elena. My name's Elena. What can I help you with, Mr. Salvatore?" She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders like she did in the interview, and gives me a fake smile that I'm sure she reserves for customers.

Game on, Miss Gilbert.

"There are a few items I need. To start with, I'd like some cable ties." My request catches her off guard; she looks stunned.

Oh, this is going to be fun. You'd be amazed what I can do with a few cable ties, baby.

"we stock various lengths. Shall I show you?" she says, finding her voice.

"Please. Lead the way."

She steps out from behind the counter and gestures toward one of the aisles. Shes wearing chucks. Idly I wonder what she'd look like in skyscraper heels. Louboutins… nothing but Louboutins. "Theyre with the electrical good, aisle eight." Her voice wavers and she blushes… She is affected by me. Hope blooms in my chest.

Shes not gay, then. I smirk.

"After you." I hold my hand out for her to lead the way. Letting her walk ahead gives me the spaces and time to admire her fantastic ass. Her long thick ponytail keeps time like a metronome wo the fentil sway of her hips. She really is the whole package: sweet, polite, and beautiful, with all they physical attributes I value in a submissive. But the million-dollar question is, could she be a submissive? She probably knows nothing of the lifestyle – my lifestyle –but I very much want to introduce her to it. You are getting ahead of yourself on this deal, Salvatore.

"Are you in Portland on business?" she asks, interrupting my thoughts. Her voice is high; shes feigning disinterest. It makes me want to laugh. Women rarely make me laugh.

"I was visiting the WSU farming division. Its based in Vancouver," I lie. Actually, I'm here to see you, Miss Gilbert.

Her face falls, and I feel like a shit.

"I'm currently funding some research there is crop rotation and soil science." That, at least, is true.

"All part of your feed-the-world plan?" She arches a brow, amused.

"Something like that," I mutter. Is she laughing at me? Oh, I'd love to put a stop to that if she is. But how to start? Maybe with dinner, rather than the usual interview… now, that would be novel: taking a prospect out to dinner.

We arrive at the cable ties, which are arranged in an assortment of lengths and colors. Absentmindedly, my fingers trace over the packets. I could just ask her out for dinner. Like on a date? Would she accept? When I glance at her shes examing her knotted fingers. She cant look at me… this is promising. I select the longer ties. They are more flexible, after all, as they can accommodate two ankles and two wrists at once.

"These will do."

"Is there anything else?" she says quickly – either shes being super-attentive or she wants to get me out of the store, I don't know which.

"I'd like some masking tape."

"Are you redecorating?"

"No, not redecorating." Oh, if you only knew…

"This way," she says. "Masking tape is in the decorating aisle."

Come on, Salvatore. You don't have much time. Engage her in some conversation. "Have you worked here long?" Of course, I already know the answer. Unlike some people, I do my research. For some reason she's embarrassed. Christ, this girl is shy. I don't have a hope in hell. She turns quickly and walks down the aisle toward the section labeled Decorating. I follow her eagerly, like a puppy.

"Four years," she mumbles as we reach the masking tape. She bends down and grasps two rolls, each a different width.

"I'll take that one." The wider tape is much more effective as a gag. As she passes it to me, the tips of our fingers touch, briefly. It resonates in my groin. Damn!

She pales. "Anything else?" Her voice is soft and husky.

Christ, I'm having the same effect on her that she has on me. Maybe…

"Some rope, I think."

"This way." She scoots up the aisle, giving me another chance to appreciate her fine ass.

"What sort were you after? We have synthetic and natural filament rope… twine… cable cord… "

Shit—stop. I groan inwardly, trying to chase away the image of her suspended from the ceiling in my playroom.

"I'll take five yards of the natural filament rope, please." It's coarser and chafes more if you struggle against it… my rope of choice.

A tremor runs through her fingers, but she measures out five yards like a pro. Pulling a utility knife from her right pocket, she cuts the rope in one swift gesture, coils it neatly, and ties it off with a slipknot. Impressive.

"Were you a Girl Scout?"

"Organized group activities aren't really my thing, Mr. Salvatore.

"What is your thing, Elena?" Her pupils dilate as I stare.

Yes!

"Books," she answers.

"What kind of books?"

"Oh, you know. The usual. The classics. British literature, mainly."

British literature? The Brontës and Austen, I bet. All those romantic hearts-and-flowers types. That's not good.

"Anything else you need?"

"I don't know. What else would you recommend?" I want to see her reaction.

"For a do-it-yourselfer?" she asks, surprised.

I want to hoot with laughter. Oh, baby, DIY is not my thing. I nod, stifling my mirth. Her eyes flick down my body and I tense. She's checking me out!

"Coveralls," she blurts out.

It's the most unexpected thing I've heard her say since the "Are you gay?" question.

"You wouldn't want to ruin your clothing." She gestures to my jeans.

I can't resist. "I could always take them off."

"Um." She flushes beet red and stares down.

I put her out of her misery. "I'll take some coveralls. Heaven forbid I should ruin any clothing." Without a word, she turns and walks briskly up the aisle, and I follow in her enticing wake.

"Do you need anything else?" she says, sounding breathless as she hands me a pair of blue coveralls. She's mortified, eyes still cast down. Christ, she does things to me.

"How's the article coming along?" I ask, in the hope she might relax a little. She looks up and gives me a brief relieved smile. Finally.

"I'm not writing it, Katherine is. Miss Kavanagh. My roommate, she's the writer. She's very happy with it. She's the editor of the newspaper, and she was devastated that she couldn't do the interview in person."

It's the longest sentence she's uttered since we first met, and she's talking about someone else, not herself. Interesting.

Before I can comment, she adds, "Her only concern is that she doesn't have any original photographs of you."

The tenacious Miss Kavanagh wants photographs. Publicity stills, eh? I can do that. It will allow me to spend time with the delectable Miss Gilbert.

"What sort of photographs does she want?"

She gazes at me for a moment, then shakes her head, perplexed, not knowing what to say.

"Well, I'm around. Tomorrow, perhaps… " I can stay in Portland. Work from a hotel. A room at The Heathman, perhaps. I'll need Taylor to come down, bring my laptop and some clothes. Or Elliot—unless he's screwing around, which is his usual MO over the weekend.

"You'd be willing to do a photo shoot?" She cannot contain her surprise. I give her a brief nod. Yeah, I want to spend more time with you… Steady, Salvatore.

"Kate will be delighted—if we can find a photographer." She smiles and her face lights up like a cloudless dawn. She's breathtaking.

"Let me know about tomorrow." I pull my wallet from my jeans. "My card. It has my cell number on it. You'll need to call before ten in the morning." And if she doesn't, I'll head on back to Seattle and forget about this stupid venture.

The thought depresses me.

"Okay." She continues to grin.

"Elena!" We both turn as a young man dressed in casual designer gear appears at the far end of the aisle. His eyes are all over Miss Elena Gilbert. Who the hell is this prick?

"Er, excuse me for a moment, Mr. Salvatore." She walks toward him, and the asshole engulfs her in a gorilla-like hug. My blood runs cold. It's a primal response.

Get your fucking paws off her.

I fist my hands and am only slightly mollified when she doesn't return his hug.

They fall into a whispered conversation. Maybe Welch's facts were wrong. Maybe this guy is her boyfriend. He looks the right age, and he can't take his greedy little eyes off her. He holds her for a moment at arm's length, examining her, then stands with his arm resting on her shoulder. It seems like a casual gesture, but I know he's staking a claim and telling me to back off. She seems embarrassed, shifting from foot to foot.

Shit. I should go. I've overplayed my hand. She's with this guy. Then she says something else to him and moves out of his reach, touching his arm, not his hand, shrugging him off. It's clear they aren't close.

Good.

"Er… Paul, this is Stefan Salvatore. Mr. Salvatore, this is Paul Clayton. His brother owns the place." She gives me an odd look that I don't understand and continues, "I've known Paul ever since I've worked here, though we don't see each other that often. He's back from Princeton, where he's studying business administration." She's babbling, giving me a long explanation and telling me they're not together, I think. The boss's brother, not a boyfriend. I'm relieved, but the extent of the relief I feel is unexpected, and it makes me frown. This woman has really gotten under my skin.

"Mr. Clayton." My tone is deliberately clipped.

"Mr. Salvatore." His handshake is limp, like his hair. Asshole. "Wait up—not the Stefan Salvatore? Of Salvatore Enterprises Holdings?"

Yeah, that's me, you prick.

In a heartbeat I watch him morph from territorial to obsequious.

"Wow—is there anything I can get you?"

"Elena has it covered, Mr. Clayton. She's been very attentive." Now fuck off.

"Cool," he gushes, all white teeth and deferential. "Catch you later, Elena."

"Sure, Paul," she says, and he ambles off to the back of the store. I watch him disappear.

"Anything else, Mr. Salvatore?"

"Just these items," I mutter. Shit, I'm out of time, and I still don't know if I'm going to see her again. I have to know whether there's a hope in hell she might consider what I have in mind. How can I ask her? Am I ready to take on a submissive who knows nothing? She's going to need substantial training. Closing my eyes, I imagine the interesting possibilities this presents… getting there is going to be half the fun. Will she even be up for this? Or do I have it all wrong?

She walks back to the cashier's counter and rings up my purchases, all the while keeping her eyes on the register.

Look at me, damn it! I want to see her face again and gauge what she's thinking. Finally she raises her head. "That will be forty-three dollars, please." Is that all?

"Would you like a bag?" she asks, as I pass her my AmEx.

"Please, Elena." Her name—a beautiful name for a beautiful girl—flows smoothly over my tongue.

She packs the items briskly. This is it. I have to go. "You'll call me if you want me to do the photo shoot?" She nods as she hands back my charge card.

"Good. Until tomorrow, perhaps." I can't just leave. I have to let her know I'm interested. "Oh—and Elena, I'm glad Miss Kavanagh couldn't do the interview." She looks surprised and flattered. This is good.

I sling the bag over my shoulder and exit the store.

Yes, against my better judgment, I want her. Now I have to wait… fucking wait… again. Utilizing willpower that would make Katherine proud, I keep my eyes ahead as I take my cell out of my pocket and climb into the rental car. I'm deliberately not looking back at her. I'm not. I'm not. My eyes flick to the rearview mirror, where I can see the shop door, but all I see is the quaint storefront. She's not in the window, staring out at me.

It's disappointing.

I press 1 on speed dial and Taylor answers before the phone has a chance to ring.

"Mr. Salvatore," he says.

"Make reservations at The Heathman; I'm staying in Portland this weekend, and can you bring down the SUV, my computer, and the paperwork beneath it, and a change or two of clothes."

"Yes, sir. And Charlie Tango?"

"Have Joe move her to PDX."

"Will do, sir. I'll be with you in about three and a half hours."

I hang up and start the car. So I have a few hours in Portland while I wait to see if this girl is interested in me. What to do? Time for a hike, I think. Maybe I can walk this strange hunger out of my system.

It's been five hours with no phone call from the delectable Miss Gilbert. What the hell was I thinking? I watch the street from the window of my suite at The Heathman. I loathe waiting. I always have. The weather, now cloudy, held for my hike through Forest Park, but the walk has done nothing to cure my agitation. I'm annoyed at her for not phoning, but mostly I'm angry with myself. I'm a fool for being here. What a waste of time it's been chasing this woman. When have I ever chased a woman? Salvatore, get a grip.

Sighing, I check my phone once again in the hope that I've just missed her call, but there's nothing. At least Taylor has arrived and I have all my shit. I have Barney's report on his department's graphene tests to read and I can work in peace.

Peace? I haven't known peace since Miss Gilbert fell into my office.

When I glance up, dusk has shrouded my suite in gray shadows. The prospect of a night alone again is depressing. While I contemplate what to do my phone vibrates against the polished wood of the desk and an unknown but vaguely familiar number with a Washington area code flashes on the screen.

Suddenly my heart is pumping as if I've run ten miles. Is it her?

I answer.

"Er… Mr. Salvatore? It's Elena Gilbert."

My face erupts in a shit-eating grin. Well, well. A breathy, nervous, soft-spoken Miss Gilbert. My evening is looking up.

"Miss Gilbert. How nice to hear from you." I hear her breath hitch and the sound travels directly to my groin.

Great. I'm affecting her. Like she's affecting me.

"Um—we'd like to go ahead with the photo shoot for the article. Tomorrow, if that's okay. Where would be convenient for you, sir?"

In my room. Just you, me, and the cable ties.

"I'm staying at The Heathman in Portland. Shall we say nine thirty tomorrow morning?"

"Okay, we'll see you there," she gushes, unable to hide the relief and delight in her voice.

"I look forward to it, Miss Gilbert." I hang up before she senses my excitement and how pleased I am. Leaning back in my chair, I gaze at the darkening skyline and run both my hands through my hair.

How the hell am I going to close this deal?


	3. Chapter 3

Sunday, May 15, 2011

With Moby blasting in my ears I run down Southwest Salmon Street toward the Willamette River. It's 6:30 in the morning and I'm trying to clear my head. Last night I dreamed of her. Blue eyes, breathy voice… her sentences ending with "sir" as she knelt before me. Since I've met her, my dreams have been a welcome change from the occasional nightmare. I wonder what Flynn would make of that. The thought is disconcerting, so I ignore it and concentrate on pushing my body to its limits along the bank of the Willamette. As my feet pound the walkway, sunshine breaks through the clouds and I t gives me hope.

Two hours later as I jog back to the hotel I pass a coffee shop. Maybe I should take her for coffee. Like a date?

Well. No. Not a date. I laugh at the ridiculous thought. Just a chat—an interview of sorts. Then I can find out a little more about this enigmatic woman and if she's interested, or if I'm on a wild-goose chase. I'm alone in the elevator as I stretch out. Finishing my stretches in my hotel suite, I'm centered and calm for the first time since I arrived in Portland. Breakfast has been delivered and I'm famished. It's not a feeling I tolerate—ever. Sitting down to breakfast in my sweats, I decide to eat before I shower.

There's a brisk knock on the door. I open it and Taylor stands on the threshold.

"Good morning, Mr. Salvatore."

"Morning. They ready for me?"

"Yes, sir. They're set up in room 601."

"I'll be right down." I close the door and tuck my shirt into my gray pants. My hair is wet from my shower, but I don't give a shit. One glance at the louche fucker in the mirror and I exit to follow Taylor to the elevator.

Room 601 is crowded with people, lights, and camera boxes, but I spot her immediately. She's standing to the side. Her hair is loose: a lush, glossy mane that falls beneath her breasts. She's wearing tight jeans and chucks with a short-sleeved navy jacket and a white T-shirt beneath. Are jeans and chucks her signature look? While not very convenient, they do flatter her shapely legs. Her eyes, disarming as ever, widen as I approach.

"Miss Gilbert, we meet again." She takes my extended hand and for a moment I want to squeeze hers and raise it to my lips.

Don't be absurd, Salvatore

She turns her delicious pink and waves in the direction of her friend, who is standing too close, waiting for my attention.

"Mr. Salvatore, this is Katherine Kavanagh," she says. With reluctance I release her and turn to the persistent Miss Kavanagh. She's tall, striking, and well groomed, like her father, but she has her mother's eyes, and I have her to thank for my introduction to the delightful Miss Gilbert. That thought makes me feel a little more benevolent toward her.

"The tenacious Miss Kavanagh. How do you do? I trust you're feeling better? Elena said you were unwell last week."

"I'm fine, thank you, Mr. Salvatore."

She has a firm, confident handshake, and I doubt she's ever faced a day of hardship in her privileged life. I wonder why these women are friends. They have nothing in common.

"Thank you for taking the time to do this," Katherine says.

"It's a pleasure," I reply, and glance at Elena, who rewards me with her telltale flush.

Is it just me who makes her blush? The thought pleases me.

"This is José Rodriguez, our photographer," Elena says, and her face lights up as she introduces him.

Shit. Is this the boyfriend?

Rodriguez blooms under Elena's sweet smile.

Are they fucking?

"Mr. Salvatore." Rodriguez gives me a dark look as we shake hands. It's a warning. He's telling me to back off. He likes her. He likes her a lot.

Well, game on, kid.

"Mr. Rodriguez, where would you like me?" My tone is a challenge, and he hears it, but Katherine intervenes and waves me toward a chair. Ah. She likes to be in charge. The thought amuses me as I sit. Another young man who appears to be working with Rodriguez switches on the lights, and momentarily I'm blinded.

Hell!

As the glare recedes I search out the lovely Miss Gilbert. She's standing at the back of the room, observing the proceedings. Does she always shy away like this? Maybe that's why she and Kavanagh are friends; she's content to be in the background and let Katherine take center stage.

Hmm… a natural submissive.

The photographer appears professional enough and absorbed in the job he's been assigned to do. I regard Miss Gilbert as she watches both of us. Our eyes meet; hers are honest and innocent, and for a moment I reconsider my plan. But then she bites her lip and my breath catches in my throat.

Back down, Elena. I will her to stop staring, and as if she can hear me, she's the first to look away.

Good girl.

Katherine asks me to stand as Rodriguez continues to take snaps. Then we're done and this is my chance.

"Thank you again, Mr. Salvatore." Katherine surges forward and shakes my hand, followed by the photographer, who regards me with ill-concealed disapproval. His antagonism makes me smile. Oh, man… you have no idea.

"I look forward to reading the article, Miss Kavanagh," I say, giving her a brief polite nod. Its Elena I want to talk to. "Will you walk with me, Miss Gilbert?" I ask, when I reach her by the door.

"Sure," she says with surprise.

Seize the day, Salvatore.

I mutter some platitude to those still in the room and usher her out the door, wanting to put some distance between her and Rodriguez. In the corridor she stands fiddling with her hair, then her fingers, as Taylor follows me out.

"I'll call you, Taylor," I say, and when he's almost out of earshot I ask Elena to join me for coffee, my breath held for her response.

Her long lashes flicker over her eyes. "I have to drive everyone home," she says with dismay.

"Taylor," I call after him, making her jump. I must make her nervous and I don't know if this is good or bad. And she can't stop fidgeting. Thinking about all the ways I could make her stop is distracting.

"Are they based at the university?" She nods and I ask Taylor to take her friends home.

"There. Now can you join me for coffee?"

"Um—Mr. Salvatore, er—this really… " She stops.

Shit. It's a "no." I'm going to lose this deal. She looks directly at me, eyes bright. "Look, Taylor doesn't have to drive them home. I'll swap vehicles with Kate, if you give me a moment." My relief is tangible and I grin.

I have a date!

Opening the door, I let her back into the room as Taylor conceals his puzzled look.

"Can you grab my jacket, Taylor?"

"Certainly, sir."

He turns on his heel, his lips twitching as he heads up the corridor. I watch him with narrowed eyes as he disappears into the elevator while I lean against the wall and wait for Miss Gilbert. What the hell am I going to say to her?

"How would you like to be my submissive?"

No. Steady, Salvatore. Let's take this one stage at a time.

Taylor is back within a couple of minutes, holding my jacket.

"Will that be all, sir?"

"Yes. Thanks."

He gives it to me and leaves me standing like an idiot in the corridor.

How long is Elena going to be? I check my watch. She must be negotiating the car swap with Katherine. Or she's talking to Rodriguez, explaining that she's just going for coffee to placate me and keep me sweet for the article. My thoughts darken. Maybe she's kissing him good-bye.

Damn.

She emerges a moment later, and I'm pleased. She doesn't look like she's just been kissed.

"Okay," she says with resolve. "Let's do coffee." But her reddening cheeks somewhat undermine her effort to look confident.

"After you, Miss Gilbert." I conceal my delight as she falls into step ahead of me. As I catch up with her my curiosity is piqued about her relationship with Katherine, specifically their compatibility. I ask her how long they've known each other.

"Since our freshman year. She's a good friend." Her voice is full of warmth. Elena is clearly devoted. She came all the way to Seattle to interview me when Katherine was ill, and I find myself hoping that Miss Kavanagh treats her with the same loyalty and respect.

At the elevators I press the call button and almost immediately the doors open. A couple in a passionate embrace spring apart, embarrassed to be caught. Ignoring them, we step into the elevator, but I catch Elena's impish smile.

As we travel to the first floor the atmosphere is thick with unfulfilled desire. And I don't know if it's emanating from the couple behind us or from me.

Yes. I want her. Will she want what I have to offer?

I'm relieved when the doors open again and I take her hand, which is cool and not clammy as expected. Perhaps I don't affect her as much as I'd like. The thought is disheartening.

In our wake we hear embarrassed giggling from the couple.

"What is it about elevators?" I mutter. And I have to admit there's something wholesome and naïve about their giggling that's totally charming. Miss Gilbert seems that innocent, just like them, and as we walk onto the street I question my motives again.

She's too young. She's too inexperienced, but, damn, I like the feel of her hand in mine.

In the coffee shop I direct her to find a table and ask what she wants to drink. She stutters through her order: English Breakfast tea—hot water, bag on the side. That's a new one to me.

"No coffee?"

"I'm not keen on coffee."

"Okay, bag-out tea. Sugar?"

"No thanks," she says, staring down at her fingers.

"Anything to eat?"

"No thank you." She shakes her head and tosses her hair over her shoulder, highlighting glints of auburn.

I have to wait in line while the two matronly women behind the counter exchange inane pleasantries with all their customers. It's frustrating and keeping me from my objective: Elena.

"Hey, handsome, what can I get you?" the older woman asks with a twinkle in her eye. It's just a pretty face, sweetheart.

"I'll have a coffee with steamed milk. English Breakfast tea. Teabag on the side. And a blueberry muffin."

Elena might change her mind and eat.

"You visiting Portland?"

"Yes."

"The weekend?"

"Yes."

"The weather sure has picked up today."

"Yes."

"I hope you get out to enjoy some sunshine."

Please stop talking to me and hurry the fuck up.

"Yes," I hiss through my teeth and glance over at Elena, who quickly looks away.

She's watching me. Is she checking me out?

A bubble of hope swells in my chest.

"There you go." The woman winks and places the drinks on my tray. "Pay at the register, honey, and you have a nice day, now."

I manage a cordial response. "Thank you."

At the table Elena is staring at her fingers, reflecting on heaven knows what.

Me?

"Penny for your thoughts?" I ask.

She jumps and turns red as I set out her tea and my coffee. She sits mute and mortified. Why? Does she really not want to be here?

"Your thoughts?" I ask again, and she fidgets with the teabag.

"This is my favorite tea," she says, and I revise my mental note that it's Twinings English Breakfast tea she likes. I watch her dunk the teabag in the teapot. It's an elaborate and messy spectacle. She fishes it out almost immediately and places the used teabag on her saucer. My mouth is twitching with my amusement. As she tells me she likes her tea weak and black, for a moment I think she's describing what she likes in a man.

Get a grip, Salvatore. She's talking about tea.

Enough of this preamble; it's time for some due diligence in this deal. "Is he your boyfriend?" Her brows knit together, forming a small v above her nose.

"Who?"

This is a good response.

"The photographer. José Rodriguez." She laughs. At me.

At me!

And I don't know if it's from relief or if she thinks I'm funny. It's annoying. I can't get her measure. Does she like me or not? She tells me he's just a friend.

Oh, sweetheart, he wants to be more than a friend.

"Why did you think he was my boyfriend?" she asks.

"The way you smiled at him, and he at you." You have no idea, do you? The boy is smitten.

"He's more like family," she says.

Okay, so the lust is one-sided, and for a moment I wonder if she realizes how lovely she is. She eyes the blueberry muffin as I peel back the paper, and for a moment I imagine her on her knees beside me as I feed her, a morsel at a time. The thought is diverting—and arousing. "Do you want some?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "No thanks." Her voice is hesitant and she stares once more at her hands. Why is she so jittery? Maybe because of me?

"And the boy I met yesterday, at the store. He's not your boyfriend?"

"No. Paul's just a friend. I told you yesterday." She frowns again as if she's confused, and crosses her arms in defense. She doesn't like being asked about these boys. I remember how uncomfortable she seemed when the kid at the store put his arm around her, staking his claim. "Why do you ask?" she adds.

"You seem nervous around men."

Her eyes widen. They really are beautiful, the color of the ocean at Cabo, the bluest of blue seas. I should take her there.

What? Where did that come from?

"I find you intimidating," she says, and looks down, fidgeting once more with her fingers. On the one hand she's so submissive, but on the other she's… challenging.

"You should find me intimidating."

Yeah. She should. There aren't many people brave enough to tell me that I intimidate them. She's honest, and I tell her so—but when she averts her eyes, I don't know what she's thinking. It's frustrating. Does she like me? Or is she tolerating this meeting to keep Kavanagh's interview on track? Which is it?

"You're a mystery, Miss Gilbert."

"There's nothing mysterious about me."

"I think you're very self-contained." Like any good submissive. "Except when you blush, of course, which is often. I just wish I knew what you were blushing about." There. That will goad her into a response. Popping a small piece of the blueberry muffin into my mouth, I await her reply.

"Do you always make such personal observations?"

That's not that personal, is it? "I hadn't realized I was. Have I offended you?"

"No."

"Good."

"But you're very high-handed."

"I'm used to getting my own way, Elena. In all things."

"I don't doubt it," she mutters, and then wants to know why I haven't asked her to call me by my first name.

What?

And I remember her leaving my office in the elevator—and how my name sounded coming out of her smart mouth. Has she seen through me? Is she deliberately antagonizing me? I tell her that no one calls me Stefan, except my family… I don't even know if it's my real name.

Don't go there, Salvatore.

I change the subject. I want to know about her.

"Are you an only child?"

Her eyelashes flutter several times before she answers that she is.

"Tell me about your parents."

She rolls her eyes and I have to fight the compulsion to scold her.

"My mom lives in Georgia with her new husband, Bob. My stepdad lives in Montesano."

Of course I know all this from Welch's background check, but it's important to hear it from her. Her lips soften with a fond smile when she mentions her stepdad.

"Your father?" I ask.

"My father died when I was a baby."

For a moment I'm catapulted into my nightmares, looking at a prostrate body on a grimy floor. "I'm sorry," I mutter.

"I don't remember him," she says, dragging me back to the now. Her expression is clear and bright, and I know that Raymond Gilbert has been a good father to this girl. Her mother's relationship with her, on the other hand—that remains to be seen.

"And your mother remarried?"

Her laugh is bitter. "You could say that." But she doesn't elaborate. She's one of the few women I've met who can sit in silence. Which is great, but not what I want at the moment. "You're not giving much away, are you?"

"Neither are you," she parries.

Oh, Miss Gilbert. Game on.

And it's with great pleasure and a smirk that I remind her that she's interviewed me already. "I can recollect some quite probing questions." Yes. You asked me if I was gay.

My statement has the desired effect and she's embarrassed. She starts babbling about herself and a few details hit home. Her mother is an incurable romantic. I suppose someone on her fourth marriage is embracing hope over experience. Is she like her mother? I can't bring myself to ask her. If she says she is—then I have no hope. And I don't want this interview to end. I'm enjoying myself too much.

I ask about her stepfather and she confirms my hunch. It's obvious she loves him. Her face is luminous when she talks about him: his job (he's a carpenter), his hobbies (he likes European soccer and fishing). She preferred to live with him when her mom married the third time.

Interesting.

She straightens her shoulders. "Tell me about your parents," she demands, in an attempt to divert the conversation from her family. I don't like talking about mine, so I give her the bare details. "My dad's a lawyer, my mom is a pediatrician. They live in Seattle."

"What do your siblings do?"

She wants to go there? I give her the short answer that Elliot works in construction and Mia is at cooking school in Paris.

She listens, rapt. "I hear Paris is lovely," she says with a dreamy expression.

"It's beautiful. Have you been?"

"I've never left mainland USA." The cadence in her voice falls, tinged with regret. I could take her there.

"Would you like to go?"

First Cabo, now Paris? Get a grip, Salvatore.

"To Paris? Of course. But it's England that I'd really like to visit."

Her face brightens with excitement. Miss Gilbert wants to travel. But why England? I ask her.

"It's the home of Shakespeare, Austen, the Brontë sisters, Thomas Hardy. I'd like to see the places that inspired those people to write such wonderful books." It's obvious this is her first love.

Books.

She said as much in Clayton's yesterday. That means I'm competing with Darcy, Rochester, and Angel Clare: impossible romantic heroes. Here's the proof I needed. She's an incurable romantic, like her mother—and this isn't going to work. To add insult to injury, she looks at her watch. She's done. I've blown this deal.

"I'd better go. I have to study," she says.

I offer to walk her back to her friend's car, which means I'll have the walk back to the hotel to make my case.

But should I?

"Thank you for the tea, Mr. Salvatore," she says.

"You're welcome, Elena. It's my pleasure." As I say the words I realize that the last twenty minutes have been… enjoyable. Giving her my most dazzling smile, guaranteed to disarm, I offer her my hand. "Come," I say. She takes my hand, and as we walk back to The Heathman I can't shake how agreeable her hand feels in mine.

Maybe this could work.

"Do you always wear jeans?" I ask.

"Mostly," she says, and it's two strikes against her: incurable romantic who only wears jeans… I like my women in skirts. I like them accessible.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" she asks out of the blue, and it's the third strike. I'm out of this fledgling deal. She wants romance, and I can't offer her that.

"No, Elena. I don't do the girlfriend thing."

Stricken with a frown, she turns abruptly and stumbles into the road.

"Shit, Elena!" I shout, tugging her toward me to stop her from falling in the path of an idiot cyclist who's flying the wrong way up the street. All of a sudden she's in my arms clutching my biceps, staring up at me. Her eyes are startled, and for the first time I notice a darker ring of blue circling her irises; they're beautiful, more beautiful this close. Her pupils dilate and I know I could fall into her gaze and never return. She takes a deep breath.

"Are you okay?" My voice sounds alien and distant, and I realize she's touching me and I don't care. My fingers caress her cheek. Her skin is soft and smooth, and as I brush my thumb against her lower lip, my breath catches in my throat. Her body is pressed against mine, and the feel of her breasts and her heat through my shirt is arousing. She has a fresh, wholesome fragrance that reminds me of my grandfather's apple orchard. Closing my eyes, I inhale, committing her scent to memory. When I open them she's still staring at me, entreating me, begging me, her eyes on my mouth.

Shit. She wants me to kiss her.

And I want to. Just once. Her lips are parted, ready, waiting. Her mouth felt welcoming beneath my thumb.

No. No. No. Don't do this, Salvatore.

She's not the girl for you.

She wants hearts and flowers, and you don't do that shit.

I close my eyes to blot her out and fight the temptation, and when I open them again, my decision is made. "Elena," I whisper, "you should steer clear of me. I'm not the man for you." The little v forms between her brows, and I think she's stopped breathing.

"Breathe, Elena, breathe." I have to let her go before I do something stupid, but I'm surprised at my reluctance. I want to hold her for a moment longer. "I'm going to stand you up and let you go." I step back and she releases her hold on me, yet weirdly, I don't feel any relief. I slide my hands to her shoulders to ensure she can stand. Her expression clouds with humiliation. She's mortified by my rebuff.

Hell. I didn't mean to hurt you.

"I've got this," she says, disappointment ringing in her clipped tone. She's formal and distant, but she doesn't move out of my hold. "Thank you," she adds.

"For what?"

"For saving me."

And I want to tell her that I'm saving her from me… that it's a noble gesture, but that's not what she wants to hear. "That idiot was riding the wrong way. I'm glad I was here. I shudder to think what could have happened to you." Now it's me that's babbling, and I still can't let her go. I offer to sit with her in the hotel, knowing it's a ploy to prolong my time with her, and only then do I release her.

She shakes her head, her back ramrod stiff, and wraps her arms around herself in a protective gesture. A moment later she bolts across the street and I have to hurry to keep up with her.

When we reach the hotel, she turns and faces me once more, composed. "Thanks for the tea and doing the photo shoot." She regards me dispassionately and regret flares in my gut. "Elena… I…" I can't think what to say, except that I'm sorry.

"What, Stefan?" she snaps.

Whoa. She's mad at me, pouring all the contempt she can into each syllable of my name. It's novel. And she's leaving. And I don't want her to go. "Good luck with your exams."

Her eyes flash with hurt and indignation. "Thanks," she mutters, disdain in her tone. "Good-bye, Mr. Salvatore." She turns away and strides up the street toward the underground garage. I watch her go, hoping that she'll give me a second look, but she doesn't. She disappears into the building, leaving in her wake a trace of regret, the memory of her beautiful blue eyes, and the scent of an apple orchard in the fall.


	4. Chapter 4

Thursday, May 19, 2011

No! My scream bounces off the bedroom walls and wakes me from my nightmare. I'm smothered in sweat, with the stench of stale beer, cigarettes, and poverty in my nostrils and a lingering dread of drunken violence. Sitting up, I put my head in my hands as I try to calm my escalated heart rate and erratic breathing. It's been the same for the last four nights. Glancing at the clock, I see its 3:00 a.m.

I have two major meetings tomorrow… today… and I need a clear head and some sleep. Damn it, what I'd give for a good night's sleep. And I have a round of fucking golf with Bastille. I should cancel the golf; the thought of playing and losing darkens my already bleak mood.

Clambering out of bed, I wander down the corridor and into the kitchen. There, I fill a glass with water and catch sight of myself, dressed only in pajama pants, reflected in the glass wall at the other side of the room. I turn away in disgust.

You turned her down.

She wanted you.

And you turned her down.

It was for her own good.

This has needled me for days now. Her beautiful face appears in my mind without warning, taunting me. If my shrink was back from his vacation in England I could call him. His psychobabble shit would stop me feeling this lousy.

Salvatore, she was just a pretty girl.

Perhaps I need a distraction; a new sub, maybe. It's been too long since Susannah. I contemplate calling Katherine in the morning. She always finds suitable candidates for me. But the truth is, I don't want anyone new.

I want Elena.

Her disappointment, her wounded indignation, and her contempt remain with me. She walked away without a backward glance. Perhaps I raised her hopes by asking her out for coffee, only to disappoint her.

Maybe I should find some way to apologize, then I can forget about this whole sorry episode and get the girl out of my head. Leaving the glass in the sink for my housekeeper to wash, I trudge back to bed.

The radio alarm jolts to life at 5:45 as I'm staring at the ceiling. I haven't slept and I'm exhausted. Fuck! This is ridiculous.

The program on the radio is a welcome distraction until the second news item. It's about the sale of a rare manuscript: an unfinished novel by Jane Austen called The Watsons that's being auctioned in London.

"Books," she said.

Christ. Even the news reminds me of little Miss Bookworm.

She's an incurable romantic who loves the English classics. But then so do I, but for different reasons. I don't have any Jane Austen first editions, or Brontës, for that matter… but I do have two Thomas Hardys.

Of course! This is it! This is what I can do.

Moments later I'm in my library with Jude the Obscure and a boxed set of Tess of the d'Urbervilles in its three volumes laid out on the billiard table in front of me. Both are bleak books, with tragic themes. Hardy had a dark, twisted soul.

Like me.

I shake off the thought and examine the books. Even though Jude is in better condition, it's no contest. In Jude there is no redemption, so I'll send her Tess, with a suitable quote. I know it's not the most romantic book, considering the evils that befall the heroine, but she has a brief taste of romantic love in the bucolic idyll that is the English countryside. And Tess does exact revenge on the man who wronged her.

But that's not the point. Elena mentioned Hardy as a favorite and I'm sure she's never seen, let alone owned, a first edition.

"You sound like the ultimate consumer." Her judgmental retort from the interview comes back to haunt me. Yes. I like to possess things, things that will rise in value, like first editions.

Feeling calmer and more composed, and a little pleased with myself, I head back into my closet and change into my running gear.

In the back of the car I leaf through book one of the Tess first edition, looking for a quote, and at the same time wonder when Elena's last exam will take place. I read the book years ago and have a hazy recollection of the plot. Fiction was my sanctuary when I was a teenager. My mother always marveled that I read; Elliot not so much. I craved the escape that fiction provided. He didn't need an escape.

"Mr. Salvatore," Taylor interrupts." "We're here, sir." He climbs out of the car and opens my door. "I'll be outside at two o'clock to take you to your golf game."

I nod and head into Salvatore House, the books tucked under my arm. The young receptionist greets me with a flirtatious wave.

Everyday… Like a cheesy tune on repeat.

Ignoring her, I make my way to the elevator that will take me straight to my floor.

"Good morning, Mr. Salvatore," Barry on security greets me as he presses the button to summon the elevator.

"How's your son, Barry?"

"Better, sir."

"I'm glad to hear it."

I step into the elevator and it shoot up to the twentieth floor. Andrea is on hand to greet me.

"Good morning Mr. Salvatore. Ros wants to see you to discuss the Darfur project. Barney would like a few minutes – "

I hold up my hand to silence her. "Forget those for now. Get me Welch on the line and find out when Flynn is back from vacation. Once I've spoken to Welch we can pick up the day's schedule."

"Yes, sir."

"And I need a double espresso. Get Olivia to make it for me."

But looking around I notice that Olivia is absent. It's a relief. The girl is always mooning over me and it's fucking irritating.

"Would you like milk, sir?" Andrea asks.

Good girl. I give her smile.

"Not today." I do like to keep them guessing how I take my coffee.

"Very good, Mr. Salvatore." She looks pleased with herself, which she should be. She's the best PA I've had.

Three minutes later she has Welch on the line.

"Welch?"

"Mr. Salvatore."

"The background check you did for me last week. Elena Gilbert. Studying at WSU"

"Yes, sir. I remember."

"I'd like you to find out when her last final exam takes place and let me know as a matter of priority."

"Very good, sir. Anything else?"

"No, that will be all." I hang up and stare at the books on my desk. I need to find a quote.

Ros, my number two and my chief operating officer, is in full flow. "We're getting clearance from the Sudanese authorities to put the shipments into Port Sudan. But our contacts on the ground are hesitant about the road journey to Darfur. They're doing a risk assessment to see how viable it is." Logistics must be tough; her normal sunny disposition is absent.

"We could always air-drop."

"Stefan, the expense of and airdrop – "

"I know. Let's see what out HGO friends come back with."

"Okay," she says and sighs. "I'm also waiting for the all-clear from the State Department."

I roll my eyes. Fucking red tape. "If we have to grease some palms–or get Senator Blandio to intervene–let me know."

"So the next topic is where to site the new plant. You know the tax breaks in Detroit are huge. I sent a summary."

"I know. But God, does it have to be Detroit?"

"I don't know what you have against the place. It meets our criteria."

"Okay, get Bill to check out potential brownfield sites. And let's do one more site search to see if any other municipality would offer more favorable terms."

"Bill has already sent Ruth out there to meet with the Detroit Brownfield Redevelopment Authority, who couldn't be more accommodating, but I'll ask Bill to do a final check."

My phone buzzes.

"I have Welch for you."

My watch says 11:30. That was quick. "Put him through." I signal for Ros to stay.

"Mr. Salvatore?"

"Welch. What news?"

"Miss Gilbert's last exam is tomorrow, May twentieth." Damn. I don't have long.

"Great. That's all I need to know." I hang up.

"Ros, bear with me one moment."

I pick up the phone. Andrea answers immediately.

"Andrea, I need a blank notecard to write a message within the next hour," I say, and hang up. "Right, Ros, where were we?"

At 12:30 Olivia shuffles into my office with lunch. She's a tall, willowy girl with a pretty face. Sadly, it's always misdirected at me with longing. She's carrying a tray with what I hope is something edible.

After a busy morning, I'm starving. She trembles as she puts it on my desk. Tuna salad. Okay. She hasn't fucked this up for once.

She also places three different white cards, all different sizes, with corresponding envelopes on my desk.

"Great," I mutter. Now go. She scuttles out.

I take one bite of tuna to assuage my hunger, then reach for my pen. I've chosen a quote. A warning. I made the correct choice, walking away from her. Not all men are romantic heroes. I'll take the word "men-folk" out. She'll understand.

Why didn't you tell me there was danger? Why didn't you warn me? Ladies know what to guard against, because they read novels that tell them of these tricks…

I slip the card into the envelope provided and on it write Elena's address, which is ingrained in my memory from Welch's background check. I buzz Andrea.

"Yes, Mr. Salvatore."

"Can you come in, please?"

"Yes, sir."

She appears at my door a moment later. "Mr. Salvatore?"

"Take these, package them, and courier them to Elena Gilbert, the girl who interviewed me last week. Here's her address."

"Right away, Mr. Salvatore."

"They have to arrive by tomorrow at the latest."

"Yes, sir. Will that be all?"

"No. Find me a set of replacements."

"For these books?"

"Yes. First editions. Get Olivia on it."

"What books are these?"

"Tess of the d'Urbervilles."

"Yes, sir." She gives me a rare smile and leaves my office.

Why is she smiling?

She never smiles. Dismissing the thought, I wonder if that will be the last I see of the books, and I have to acknowledge that deep down I hope not.


	5. Chapter 5

Friday, May 20, 2011

I've slept well for the first time is five days. Maybe I'm feeling the closure I had hoped for, now that I've sent those books to Elena. As I shave, the asshole in the mirror stares back at me with cool, grey eyes. Liar.

Fuck.

Okay. Okay. I'm hoping she'll call. She has my number.

Mrs. Jones looks up when I walk into the kitchen.

"Good morning Mr. Salvatore."

"Morning, Gail."

"What would you like for breakfast?"

"I'll have an omelet. Thank you." I sit at the kitchen counter as she prepares my food and leaf through The Wall Street Journal and The New York Times, and I pore over The Seattle Times. While I'm lost in the papers my phones buzzes.

It's Elliot. What the hell does my big brother want?

"Elliot?"

"Dude. I need to get out of Seattle this weekend. This chick is all over my junk and I've got to get away."

"Your junk?"

"Yeah. You would know if you had any."

I ignore his jibe, and then a devious thought occurs to me. "How about hiking around Portland. We could go this afternoon. Stay down there. Come home Sunday."

"Sounds cool. In the chopper, or do you want to drive?"

"It's a helicopter, Elliot, and I'll drive us down. Come by this office at lunchtime and we'll head out."

"Thanks, bro. I owe you." Elliot hangs up.

Elliot has always had a problem containing himself. As do the women he associates with: whoever the unfortunate girl is, she's just another in the long, long line of his casual liaisons.

"Mr. Salvatore. What would you like to do for food this weekend?"

"Just prepare something light and leave it in the fridge. I may be back on Saturday." Or I may not.

She didn't give you a second glance, Salvatore.

Having spent a great deal of my working life managing others' expectations, I should be better at managing my own.

Elliot sleep most of the way to Portland. Poor fucker must be fried. Working and fucking: that's Elliot raison d'être. He sprawls out in the passenger seat and snores. Some company he's going to be.

It'll be after three when we arrive in Portland, so I call Andrea on the hands-free.

"Mr. Salvatore," she answers in two rings.

"Can you have two mountain bikes delivered to The Heathman?"

"For what time, sir?"

"Three."

"The bikes are for you and your brother?"

"Yes."

"Your brother is about six-two?"

"Yes."

"I'll get on it right away."

"Great." I hang up, then call Taylor.

"Mr. Salvatore," he answers on one ring.

"What time will you be here?"

"I'll check in around nine o'clock tonight."

"Will you bring the R8?"

"With pleasure, sir." Taylor is a car fanatic, too.

"Good." I end the call and turn up the music. Let's see if Elliot through The Verve.

As we cruise down I-5 my excitement mounts.

Have the books been delivered yet? I'm tempted to call Andrea again, but I know I've left her with a ton of work. Besides, I don't want to give my staff an excuse to gossip. I don't normally do this kind of shit.

Why did you send them in the first place?

Because I want to see her again.

We pass the exit for Vancouver and I wonder if she's finished her exam.

"Hey man, where we at?" Elliot blurts.

"Behold, he wakes," I mutter. "We're nearly there. We're going mountain biking."

"We are?"

"Yes."

"Cool. Remember when Dad used to take us?"

"Yep." I shake my head at the memory. My father is a polymath, a real renaissance man: academic, sporting, at ease in the city, more at ease in the great outdoors. He's embraced thee adopted kids… and I'm the one who didn't live up to his expectations.

But before I hit adolescence we had a bond. He'd been my hero. He used to love taking us camping and doing all the outdoor pursuits I now enjoy: sailing, kayaking, biking, we did it all. Puberty ruin all that for me.

"I figured if we were arriving mid-afternoon, we wouldn't time for a hike."

"Good thinking."

"So who are you running from?"

"Man, I'm a love-'em-and-leave-'em type. You know that. No strings. I don't know, chicks find out you run your own business and they start getting crazy ideas." He gives me a sideways look. "You've got the right idea keeping your dick to yourself."

"I don't think we're discussing my dick, we're discussing yours, and who's been on the sharp end of it recently."

Elliot snickers. "I've lost count. Anyway, enough of me. How's the stimulating world of commerce and high finance?"

"You really want to know?" I shoot him a glance.

"Nah," he bleats and I laugh at his apathy and lack of eloquence.

"How's the business?" I ask.

"You checking on your investment?"

"Always." It's my job.

"Well, we broke ground on the Spokani Eden project last week and it's on schedule, but then it's only been a week." He shrugs. Beneath his somewhat casual exterior my brother is an eco-warrior. His passion for sustainable living makes for some heated Sunday dinner conversations with the family, and his latest project is an eco-friendly development of low-cost housing north of Seattle.

"I'm hoping to install that new gray-water system I was telling you about. It will mean all the homes will reduce their water usage and their bills by twenty-five percent."

"Impressive."

"I hope so."

We drive in silence into downtown Portland and just as we're pulling into the underground garage at The Heathman – the last place I saw her – Elliot mutters, "You know we're missing the Mariners game this evening."

"Maybe you can have a night in front of the TV. Give your dick a rest and watch baseball."

"Sounds good to me."

Keeping up with Elliot is a challenge. He tears down the trail with the same devil-may-fucking-care attitude he applies to most situations. Elliot knows no fear – it's why I admire him. But riding at this pace I have no chance to appreciate out surroundings. I'm vaguely aware of the lush greenery flashing past me, but my eyes are on the trail, trying to avoid the potholes. By the end of the ride we're both filthy and exhausted.

"That was the most fun I've had with my clothes on in a while," Elliot says as we hand the bikes over to the bellboy at The Heathman.

"Yeah," I mutter, and then recall holding Elena when I saved her from the cyclist. Her warmth, her breasts pressed against me, her scent invading my senses.

I had my clothes on then… "Yeah," I mutter again.

We check our phones in the elevator as we head up to the top floor.

I have e-mails, a couple of texts frim Katherine asking what I'm doing this weekend, but no missed calls from Elena. It's just before 7:00 – she must have received the books by now. The thought depresses me: I've come all the way to Portland on a wild-goose chase again.

"Man, that chick has called me five times and sent me four texts. Doesn't she know how desperate she comes across?" Elliot whines.

"Maybe she pregnant." Elliot pales and I laugh.

"Not funny, hotshot," he grumbles. "Besides, I haven't known her that long. Or that often."

After a quick shower I join Elliot in his suite and we sit down to watch the rest of the Mariners game against the San Diego Padres. We order up steak, salad, fries, and a couple of beers, and I sit back to enjoy the game in Elliot's easy company. I've resigned myself to the fact that Elena's not going to call. The Mariners are in the lead and it looks like it might be a blowout. Disappointingly it isn't, thought the Mariners win 4 – 1.

Go Mariners! Elliot and I clink beer bottles.

As the postgame analysis drones on, my phone buzzes and Miss Gilbert's number flashes on the screen.

It's her.

"Elena?" I don't hide my surprise or my pleasure. The background is noisy and it sounds like she's at a party or in a bar. Elliot glances at me, so I get up off the sofa and out of his earshot.

"Why did you send me the books?" She's slurring her words, and a wave of apprehension ripples down my spine.

"Elena, are you okay? You sound strange."

"I'm not the strange one, you are." Her tone is accusatory.

"Elena, have you been drinking?"

Hell. Who is she with? The photographer? Where's her friend Kate?

"What's it to you?" She sounds surly and belligerent, and I know she's drunk, but I also need to know that she's okay.

"I'm… curious. Where are you?"

"In a bar."

"Which bar?" Tell me. Anxiety blooms in my gut. She's a young woman, drunk, somewhere in Portland. She's not safe.

"A bar in Portland."

"How are you getting home?" I pinch the bridge of my nose in the vain hope that the action will distract me from my fraying temper.

"I'll find a way."

What the hell? Will she drive? I ask her again which bar she's in and she ignores my question.

"Why did you send me the books, Stefan?"

"Elena, where are you? Tell me now." How will she get home?

"You're so… domineering." She giggles. In any other situation I would find this charming. But right now – I want to shoe her domineering I can be. She's driving me crazy.

"Elena, so help me, where the fuck are you?" she giggles again. Shit, she's laughing at me!

Again!

"I'm in Portland… 's a long way from Seattle."

"Where in Portland?"

"Good night, Stefan." The line goes dead.

"Elena!"

She hung up on me! I stare at the phone in disbelief. No one had ever hung up on me. What the fuck!

"What's the problem?" Elliot calls over from the sofa.

"I've just been drunk-dialed." I peer at him and his mouth drops open in surprise.

"You?"  
"Yep." I press the callback button, trying to contain my temper, and my anxiety.

"Hi," she says, all breathy and timid, and she's in quieter surroundings.

"I'm coming to get you." My voice is arctic as I wrestle with me anger and snap my phone shut. "I've got to go get this girl and take her home. Do you want to come?" Elliot is staring at me as if I've grown three heads.

"You? With a chick? This I have to see." Elliot grabs his sneakers and starts putting them on.

"I just have to make a call." I wander into his bedroom while I decide of I should call Barney or Welch. Barney is the most senior engineer in the telecommunications division of my company. He's a tech genius. But what I want is not strictly legal.

Best to keep this away from my company.

I speed-dial Welch and within seconds his rasping voice answers.

"Mr. Salvatore?"

"I'd really like to know where Elena Gilbert is right now."

"I see." He pauses for a moment. "Leave it to me, Mr. Salvatore."

I know this is outside the law, but she could be getting herself into trouble.

"Thank you."

"I'll get back to you in a couple of minutes."

Elliot is rubbing his hands with glee, with a stupid smirk on his face when I return to the living room.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

"I wouldn't miss this for the world," he says, gloating.

"I'm just going to get the car keys. I'll meet you in the garage in five," I growl, ignoring his smug face.

The bar is crowed, full of students determined to have a good time. There's some indie crap thumping over the sound system and the dance floor is crowded with heaving bodies. It makes me feel old.

She's here somewhere.

Elliot has followed me in through the front door. "Do you see her?" he shouts over the noise. Scanning the room, I spot Katherine Kavanagh. She's with a group of friends, all of them men, sitting in a booth. There's no sign of Elena, but the table is littered with shot glasses and tumblers of beer.

Well, let's see if Miss Kavanagh is as loyal to her friend as Elena is to her.

She looks at me in surprise when we arrive at her table.

"Katherine," I say by way of greeting, and she interrupts me before I can ask her Elena's whereabouts.

"Stefan, what a surprise to see you here," she shouts above the noise. The three guys at the table regard Elliot and me with hostile wariness.

"I was in the neighborhood."

"And who's this?" She smiles rather too brightly at Elliot, interrupting me again. What an exasperating woman.

"This is my brother Elliot. Elliot, Katherine Kavanagh. Where's Elena?" her smile broadens at Elliot, and I'm surprised by his answering grin.

"I think she went outside for some fresh air," Kavanagh responds, but she doesn't look at me. She has eyes only for Mr. Love 'Em and Leave 'Em. Well, it's her funeral.

"Outside? Where?" I shout.

"Oh. That way." She points to the double doors at the far end of the bar.

Pushing through the throng, I make my way to the door, leaving the three disgruntled men and Kavanagh and Elliot engaged in a grin-off.

Through the double doors there is a line for the ladies' washroom, and beyond that a door that opens to the outside. It's at the back of the bar. Ironically, it leads to the parking lot where Elliot and I have just been.

Walking outside, I find myself in a gathering space adjacent to the parking lot – a hangout flanked by raised flowerbeds, where a few people are smoking, drinking, chatting. Making out. I spot her.

Hell! She's with the photographer, I think, though it's difficult to tell in the dim light. She's in his arms, but she seems to be twisting away from him. He mutters something to her, which I don't hear, and kisses her, along her jaw.

"José, no," she says, and then it's clear, she's trying to push him off.

She doesn't want this.

For a moment I want to rip his head off. With my hands fisted at my side I march up to them. "I think the lady said no." my voice carries, cold and sinister, in the relative quiet, while I struggle to contain my anger.

He releases Elena and she squints at me with a dazed, drunken expression.

"Salvatore," he says, his voice terse, and it takes every ounce of my self-control not to smash the disappointment off his face.

Elena heaves, then buckles over and vomits on the ground.

Oh, shit!

"Ugh—Dios mío, Elena!" José leaps out of the way in disgust.

Fucking idiot.

Ignoring him, I grab her hair and hold it out of the way as she continues to throw up everything she's had this evening. It's with some annoyance that I note she doesn't appear to have eaten. With my arm around her shoulders I lead her away from the curious onlookers toward one of the flowerbeds. "If you're going to throw up again, do it here. I'll hold you." It's darker here. She can puke in peace. She vomits again and again, her hands on the brick. It's pitiful. Once her stomach is empty, she continues to retch, long dry heaves.

Boy, she's got it bad.

Finally her body relaxes and I think she's finished. Releasing her, I give her my handkerchief, which by some miracle I have in the inside pocket of my jacket.

Thank you, Mrs. Jones.

Wiping her mouth, she turns and rests against the bricks, avoiding eye contact because she's ashamed and embarrasses. And yet I'm so please to see her. Gone is my fury at the photographer. I'm delighted to be standing in the parking lot of a student bar in Portland with Miss Elena Gilbert.

She puts her head in her hands, cringes, then peeks up at me, still mortified. Turing to the door, she glares over my shoulder. I assume it's at her "friend."

"I'll, um, see you inside," José says, but I don't turn to stare him down, and to my delight, she ignores him, too, returning her eyes to mine.

"I'm sorry," she says finally, while her fingers twist the soft linen.

Okay, let's have some fun.

"What are you sorry for, Elena?"

"The phone call, mainly. Being sick. Oh, the list is endless," she mumbles.

"We've all been her, perhaps not quite as dramatically as you." Why is it such fun to tease this young woman? "It's about knowing your limits, Elena. I mean, I'm all for pushing limits, but really this is beyond the pale. Do you make a habit of this kind of behavior?"

Perhaps she has a problem with alcohol. The thought is worrying, and I consider whether I should call my mother for a referral to a detox clinic.

Elena frowns for a moment, as if angry, that little v forming between her brow, and I suppress the urge to kiss it. But when she speaks she sounds contrite.

"No," she says. "I've never been drunk before and right now I have no desire to ever been again." She looks up at me, her eyes unfocused, and she sways a little, she might pass out, so without giving it a thought I scoop her up into my arms.

She's surprisingly light. Too light. The thought irks me. No wonder she's drunk.

"Come on, I'll take you home."

"I need to tell Kate," she says, as her head rests on my shoulder.

"My brother can tell her."

"What?"

"My brother Elliot is talking to Miss Kavanagh."

"Oh?'

"He was with me when you called."

"In Seattle?"

"No, I'm staying at The Heathman."

And my wild-goose chase has paid off.

"How did you find me?"

"I tracked your cell phone, Elena." I head toward the car. I want to drive her home. "Do you have a jacket or a purse?"

"Er… yes, I came with both. Stefan, please, I need to tell Kate. She'll worry."

I stop and bite my tongue. Kavanagh wasn't worried about her being out her with the over amorous photographer. Rodriguez. That's his name. What kind of friend is she? The lights from the bar illuminate her anxious face.

As much as it pains me, I put her down and agree to take her inside. Holding hands, we walk back into the bar, stopping at Kate's table. One of the young men is still there, looking annoyed and abandoned.

"Where's Kate?" Elena shouts above the noise.

"Dancing," they guy says, his dark eyes staring at the dance floor. Elena collects her jacket and purse and reaching out, she unexpectedly clutches my arm.

I freeze.

Shit.

My heart rate catapults into overdrive as the darkness surfaces, stretching and tightening its claws around my throat.

"She's on the dance floor," she shouts, her words tickling my ear, distracting me from my fear. And suddenly the darkness disappears and the pounding in my heart ceases.

What?

I roll my eyes to hide my confusion and take her to the bar, order a large glass of water, and pass it to her.

"Drink."

Eyeing me over the glass, she takes a tentative sip.

"All of it," I command. I'm hoping this will be enough damage control to avoid one hell of a hangover tomorrow."

What might have happened to her if I hadn't intervened? My mood sinks, and I think of what just happened to me.

Her touch. My reaction.

My mood plummets further.

Elena sways a little as she's drinking, so I steady her with a hand on her shoulder. I like the connection—me touching her. She's oil on my troubled, dark, deep waters.

Hmm… flowery Salvatore.

She finishes her drink, and retrieving the glass, I place it on the bar.

Okay. She wants to talk to her so-called friend. I survey the crowded dance floor, uneasy at the thought of all those bodies pressing in on me as we fight our way through.

Steeling myself, I grab her hand and lead her toward the dance floor. She hesitates, but if she wants to talk to her friend, there's only one way; she's going to have to dance with me. Once Elliot gets his groove on, there's no stopping him; so much for his quiet night in.

With a tug, she's in my arms.

This I can handle. When I know she's going to touch me, it's okay. I can deal, especially since I'm wearing my jacket. I weave us through the crowd to where Elliot and Kate are making a spectacle of themselves.

Still dancing, Elliot leans toward me in mid-strut when we're beside him and sizes us up with a look of incredulity.

"I'm taking Elena home. Tell Kate," I shout in his ear.

He nods and pulls Kavanagh into his arms.

Right. Let me take Miss Drunk Bookworm home, but for some reason she seems reluctant to go. She's watching Kavanagh with concern. When we're off the dance floor she looks back at Kate, then at me, swaying and a little dazed.

"Fuck—" By some miracle I catch her as she passes out in the middle of the bar. I'm tempted to haul her over my shoulder, but we'd be too conspicuous, so I pick her up once more, cradling her against me chest, and take her outside to the care.

"Christ," I mutter as I fish the key out of my jeans and hold her at the same time. Amazingly, I manage to her into the front seat and strap her in.

"Elena." I give her a little shake, because she's worryingly quiet. "Elena!"

She mumbles something incoherent and I know she's still conscious. I know I should take her home, but it's a long drive to Vancouver, and I don't know if she'll be sick again. I don't relish the idea of my Audi reeking of vomit. The smell emanating from her clothes is already noticeable.

I head to The Heathman, telling myself that I'm doing this for her sake. Yeah, tell yourself that, Salvatore.

She sleeps in my arms as we travel up in the elevator from the garage. I need to get her out of her jeans and her shoes. They stake stench of vomit pervades the space. I'd really like to give her bath, but that would be stepping beyond the bounds of propriety. And this isn't?

Briskly I remove her shoes and socks and put them in the plastic laundry bag provided by the hotel. Then I unzip her jeans and pull them off, check the pockets before stuffing them in the laundry bag. She falls back on the bed, splayed out like a starfish, all pale arms and legs, and for a moment I picture those legs wrapped around my waist as her wrists are bound to my Saint Andrew's cross. There's a fading bruise on her knew and I wonder if that's from the fall she took in my office.

She's been marked since then… like me.

I sit her up and she opens her eyes.

"Hello, Elena," I whisper, as I remove her jacket slowly and without her cooperation.

"Salvatore. Lips," she mutters.

"Yes, sweetheart." I ease her down onto the bed. She closes her eyes again and rolls onto her side, but this time huddles into a ball, looking small and vulnerable. I pull the covers over her and plant a kiss in her hair. Now that her filthy clothes have gone, a trace of her scent has reappeared. Apples, fall, fresh, delicious… Elena. Her lips are parted, eyelashes fanning out over pale cheeks, and her skin looks flawless. One more touch is all I allow myself as I stroke her cheek with the back of my index finger.

"Sleep well," I murmur, and then head into the living room to complete the laundry list. When it's done, I place the offending bag outside my suite so the contents will be collected and laundered.

Before I check my e-mails I text Welch, asking him to see if José Rodriguez has any police records. I'm curious. I want to know if he preys on drunk young women. Then I address the issue of cloths for Miss Gilbert: I send a quick e-mail to Taylor.

From: Stefan Salvatore

RE: Miss Elena Gilbert

Date: May 20, 2011 23:46

To: J B Taylor

Good morning,

Can you please find the following items for Miss Gilbert and have them delivered to my usual room before 10:00.

Jeans: Blue Denim Size 4

Blouse: Blue. Pretty. Size 4

Converse: Black Size 7

Socks: Size 7

Lingerie: Underwear—Size Small. Bra—Estimate 34C.

Thank you.

Stefan Salvatore

CEO, Salvatore Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

Once it's disappeared from my outbox, I text Elliot.

Elena is with me.

If you're still with Kate, tell her.

He texts by return.

Will do. Hope you get laid.

You soooo need it. ;)

His response makes me snort.

I so do, Elliot. I so do.

I open my work e-mail and begin to read.


	6. Chapter 6

Saturday, May 21, 2011

Nearly two hours later, I come to bed. It's just after 1:45. She's fast asleep and hasn't moved from where I left her. I strip, pull on my PJ pants and a t-shirt, and climb in next to her. She's comatose; it's unlikely she's going to trash around and touch me. I hesitate for a moment as the darkness swells within me, but it doesn't surface and I know it's because I'm watching the hypnotic rise and fall of her chest and I'm breathing in sync with her. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. For seconds, minutes, hours, I don't know, I watch her. And while she sleeps I survey every beautiful inch of her lovely face. Her dark lashes fluttering while she sleeps, her lips slightly parted so I glimpse her even white teeth. She mutters something unintelligible and her tongue darts out and licks her lips. Its arousing, very arousing. Finally I fall into a deep dreamless slumber.

It's quiet when I open my eyes, and I'm momentarily disoriented. Oh yes. I'm at The Heathman. The clock at my bedside says 7:43.

When was the last time I slept this late?

Elena.

Slowly I turn my head, and she's fast asleep facing me. Her beautiful face soft in repose.

I have never slept with a woman. I've fucked many, but to wake up decide and alluring young woman is a new and stimulating experience. My cock agrees.

This will not do.

Reluctantly, I climb out of bed and change into my running gear. I need to burn off this… excess energy. As I change into my sweats I can't remember the last time I've slept so well.

In the living room, I fire up my laptop, check me e-mail, and respond to two from Ros and one from Andrea. It takes me a little longer than usual, as I'm distracted knowing that Elena is asleep in the next room. I wonder how she'll feel when she wakes.

Hungover. Ah.

In the minibar I find a bottle of orange juice and empty it in a glass. She's still asleep when I enter, her hair a riot or mahogany spread across her pillow, and the covers have slipped below her waist. Her T-shirt has ridden up, exposing her belly and her navel. The sight stirs my body once more.

Stop stand her ogling the girl, for fuck's sake, Salvatore.

I have to get out of her before I do something I'll regret. Placing the glass on the bedside table, I duck into the bathroom, find two Advil in my travel kit and deposit them beside the glass of orange juice.

With one last lingering look at Elena Gilbert—the first woman I've ever slept with—I head out for my run.

When I return from my exercise, theres a bag in the living room from a stoer I don't recognize. I take a peek and see it contains clothes for Elena. From what I can see, taylor has done well—and all before 9:00.

The man is a marvel.

Her purse is on the sofa where I dropped it last night, and the door to the bedroom is still closed, so I assume she's not left and that she's still asleep.

It's a relief. Pouring over the room-service menu, I decide to order some food. She'll be hungry when she wakes, but I have no idea what she'll eat, so in a rare moment of indulgence I order a selection from the breakfast menu. I'm informed it will take half an hour.

Time to wake the delectable Miss Gilbert; she's slept enough.

Grabbing my workout towel and the shopping bag, I knock on the door and enter. To my delight, she's sitting up in bed. The tablets are gone and so is the juice.

Good girl.

She pales as I saunter into the room.

Keep it casual, Salvatore. You don't want to be charged with kidnapping.

She closes her eyes, and I assume it's because she's embarrassed.

"Good morning, Elena. How are you feeling?"

"Better than I deserve," she mutters, as I place the bag on the chair. When she turns her gaze to me her eyes are impossibly big and blue, and though her hair is a tangled mess… she looks stunning. "How did I get here?" she asks, as though she's afraid of the answer.

Reassure her, Salvatore.

I sit down on the edge of the bed and stick to the facts. "After you passed out, I didn't want ot risk the leather upholstery in my car, taking you all the way to your apartment. So I brought you here."

"Did you put me to bed?"

"Yes."

"Did I throw up again?"

"No." Thank God.

"Did you undress me?"

"Yes." Who else would have undressed you?

She blushes, and at last she has some color in her cheeks. Perfect teeth bite down on her lip. I suppress a groan.

"We didn't—?" she whispers, staring at her hands.

Christ, what kind of animal does she think I am?

"Elena, you were comatose. Necrophilia is not my thing." My tone is dry. "I like my women sentient and receptive." She sags with relief, which makes me wonder if this has happened to her before, that she's passed out and woken up in a stranger's bed and found out he's fucked her without her consent. Maybe that's the photographer's modus operandi. The thought is disturbing. But I recall her confession last night—that she'd never been drunk before. Thank God she hasn't made a habit of this.

"I'm so sorry," she says, her voice full of shame.

Hell. Maybe I should go easy on her.

"It was a very diverting evening. Not one that I'll forget in a while." I hope that sounds conciliatory, but her brow creases.

"You didn't have to track me down with whatever James Bond Gadgetry youre developing for the highest bidder."

Whoa! Now shes pissed. Why?

"First, the technology to track cell phones is available over the Internet."

Well, the Deep Net…

"Second, my company does not invest of manufacture any kind of surveillance devices."

My temper is fraying, but im on a roll. "And third, if I hadn't come to get you, youd probably be waking up in the photographers bed, and from what I can remember, you weren't overly enthused about him pressing his suit."

She blinks a couple of times, then starts giggling.

She's laughing at me again.

"Which medieval chronicle did you escape from? You sound like a courtly knight."

She's beguiling. She's calling me out… again, and her irreverence is refreshing, really refreshing. However, I'm under no illusion that I'm a knight in shining armor. Boy, has she got the wrong idea. And though it may not be to my advantage, I'm compelled to warn her that there's nothing chivalrous or courtly about me.

"Elena, I don't think so. Dark knight, maybe. "If only she knew—and why are we discussing me? I change the subject. "Did you eat last night?" she shakes her head.

I knew it!

"You need to eat. That's why you were so ill. Honestly, it's drinking rule number one."

"Are you going to continue to scold me?"

"Is that what I'm doing?"

"I think so."

"You're lucky I'm just scolding you."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, if you were mine, you wouldn't be able to sit down for a week after the stunt you pulled yesterday. You didn't eat, you got drunk, you put yourself at risk." The fear in my gut surprises me; such irresponsible, risk-taking behavior. "I hate to think what could have happened to you."

She scowls. "I would have been fine. I was with Kate."

Some help she was!

"And the photographer?" I retort.

"José just got out of line," she says, dismissing my concern and tossing her tangled hair over her shoulder.

"Well, the next time he gets out of line, maybe someone should teach him some manners."

"You're quite the disciplinarian," she snaps.

"Oh, Elena, you have no idea."

An image of her shackled to my bench, peeled gingerroot inserted in her ass so she can't clench her buttocks, comes to mind, followed by judicious use of a belt or strap. Yeah… That would teach her not to be so irresponsible. The thought is hugely appealing.

She's staring at me wide-eyed and dazed, and it makes me uncomfortable. Can she read my mind? Or is she just looking at a pretty face?

"I'm going to have a shower. Unless you'd like to shower first?" I tell her, but she continues to gape. Even with her mouth open she's quite lovely. She's hard to resist, and I grant myself permission to touch her, tracing the line of her cheek with my thumb. Her breath catches in her throat as I stroke her soft bottom lip.

"Breathe, Elena," I murmur, before I stand and inform her that breakfast will be here in fifteen minutes. She says nothing, her smart mouth silent for once.

In the bathroom I take a deep breath, strip, and climb into the shower. I'm half tempted to jerk off, but the familiar fear of discovery and disclosure, from an earlier time in my life, stops me.

Katherine would not be pleased.

Old habits.

As the water cascades over my head I reflect on my latest interaction with the challenging Miss Gilbert. She's still here, in my bed, so she cannot find me completely repulsive. I noticed the way her breath caught in her throat, and how her gaze followed me around the room.

Yeah. There's hope.

But would she make a good submissive?

It's obvious she knows nothing of the lifestyle. She couldn't even say "fuck" or "sex" of whatever bookish college students use as a euphemism for fucking these days. She's quite the innocent. She's probably been subjected to a few fumbling encounters with boys like the photographer.

The thought of her fumbling with anyone irks me.

I could just ask her if she's interested.

No. I'd have to show her what she'd be taking on if she agreed to a relationship with me.

Let's see how we both fare over breakfast.

Rinsing off the soap, I stand beneath the hot stream and gather my wits for round two with Elena Gilbert. I switch off the water and, stepping out of the shower, grab a towel. A quick check in the steamed-up mirror and I decide to skip shaving today. Breakfast will be here shortly, and I'm hungry. Quickly I brush my teeth.

When I open the bathroom door she's out of bed and searching for her jeans. She looks up like the archetypal startled fawn, all long legs and big eyes.

"If you're looking for your jeans, I've sent them to the laundry." She really has great legs. She shouldn't hide them in pants. Her eyes narrow, and I think she's going to argue with me, so I tell her why. "They were spattered with your vomit."

"Oh," she says.

Yes. "Oh." Now, what do you have to say to that, Miss Gilbert?

"I sent Taylor out for another pair and some shoes. They're in the bag on the chair." I nod at the shopping bag.

She raises her eyebrows—in surprise, I think. "Um. I'll have a shower," she mutters, and then as an afterthought she adds, "Thanks."

Grabbing the bag, she dodges around me, darts into the bathroom, and locks the door.

Hmm… she couldn't get into the bathroom quick enough.

Away from me.

Perhaps I'm being too optimistic.

Disheartened, I briskly dry off and get dressed. In the living room I check my e-mail, but there's nothing urgent. I'm interrupted by a knock on the door. Two young women have arrived from room service.

"Where would you like breakfast, sir?"

"Set it up on the dining table."

Walking back into the bedroom, I catch their furtive looks, but I ignore them and suppress the guilt I feel over how much food I've ordered. We'll never eat it all.

"Breakfast is here," I call, and rap on the bathroom door.

"O-okay." Elena's voice sounds a little muted.

Back in the living room, our breakfast is on the table. One of the women, who has dark, dark eyes, hands me the check to sign, and from my wallet I pull a couple of twenties for them.

"Thank you, ladies."

"Just call room service when you want the table cleared, sir," Miss Dark Eyes says with a coquettish look, as if she's offering more.

My chilly smile warns her off.

Sitting down at the table with the newspaper, I pour myself a coffee and make a start on my omelet. My phone buzzes—a text from Elliot.

Kate wants to know if Elena is still alive.

I chuckle, somewhat mollified that Elena's so-called friend is thinking about her. It's obvious that Elliot hasn't given his dick a rest after all his protestations yesterday. I text back.

Alive and kicking ;)

Elena appears a few moments later: hair wet, in the pretty blue blouse that matches her eyes. Taylor has done well; she looks lovely. Scanning the room, she spots her purse.

"Crap, Kate!" she blurts.

"She knows you're here and still alive. I texted Elliot."

She gives me an uncertain smile as she walks toward the table.

"Sit," I say, pointing to the place that's been set for her. She frowns at the amount of food on the table, which only accentuates my guilt.

"I didn't know what you liked, so I ordered a selection from the breakfast menu," I mutter by way of an apology.

"That's very profligate of you," she says.

"Yes, it is." My guilt blooms. But as she opts for the pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon with maple syrup, and tucks in, I forgive myself. It's good to see her eat.

"Tea?" I ask.

"Yes, please," she says between mouthfuls. She's obviously famished. I pass her the small teapot of water. She gives me a sweet smile when she notices the Twinings English Breakfast tea.

I have to catch my breath at her expression. And it makes me uneasy.

It gives me hope.

"Your hair's very damp," I observe.

"I couldn't find the hair dryer," she says, embarrassed.

She'll get sick.

"Thank you for the clothes," she adds.

"It's a pleasure, Elena. That color suits you." She stares down at her fingers.

"You know, you really should learn to take a compliment."

Perhaps she doesn't get many… but why? She's gorgeous in an understated way. "I should give you some money for these clothes."

What?

I glare at her, and she continues quickly, "You've already given me the books, which, of course, I can't accept. But these, please let me pay you back." Sweetheart.

"Elena, trust me, I can afford it."

"That's not the point. Why should you buy these for me?"

"Because I can." I'm a very rich man, Elena.

"Just because you can doesn't mean that you should." Her voice is soft, but suddenly I'm wondering if she's looked through me and seen my darkest desires. "Why did you send me the books, Stefan?"

Because I wanted to see you again, and here you are…

"Well, when you were nearly run over by the cyclist—and I was holding you and you were looking up at me—all 'kiss me, kiss me, Stefan'—" I stop, recalling that moment, her body pressed against mine. Shit. Quickly I shrug off the memory. "I felt I owed you an apology and a warning. Elena, I'm not a hearts-and-flowers kind of man. I don't do romance. My tastes are very singular. You should steer clear of me. There's something about you, though, and I'm finding it impossible to stay away. But I think you've figured that out already."

"Then don't," she whispers.

What?

"You don't know what you're saying."

"Enlighten me, then."

Her words travel straight to my cock.

Fuck.

"You're not celibate?" she asks.

"No, Elena, I'm not celibate." And if you'd let me tie you up I'd prove it to you right now.

Her eyes widen and her cheeks pink.

Oh, Elena.

I have to show her. It's the only way I'll know. "What are your plans for the next few days?" I ask.

"I'm working today, from midday. What time is it?" she exclaims in panic.

"It's just after ten; you've plenty of time. What about tomorrow?"

"Kate and I are going to start packing. We're moving to Seattle next weekend, and I'm working at

Clayton's all this week."

"You have a place in Seattle already?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"I can't remember the address. It's in the Pike Market District."

"Not far from me." Good! "So what are you going to do for work in Seattle?"

"I've applied for some internships. I'm waiting to hear."

"Have you applied to my company, as I suggested?"

"Um… no."

"And what's wrong with my company?"

"Your company or your company?" She arches an eyebrow.

"Are you smirking at me, Miss Gilbert?" I can't hide my amusement.

Oh, she'd be a joy to train… challenging, maddening woman.

She examines her plate, chewing at her lip.

"I'd like to bite that lip," I whisper, because it's true.

Her face flies to mine and she shuffles in her seat. She tilts her chin toward me, her eyes full of confidence. "Why don't you?" she says quietly.

Oh. Don't tempt me, baby. I can't. Not yet.

"Because I'm not going to touch you, Elena—not until I have your written consent to do so."

"What does that mean?" she asks.

"Exactly what I say. I need to show you, Elena." So you know what you're getting yourself into. "What time do you finish work this evening?"

"About eight."

"Well, we could go to Seattle this evening or next Saturday for dinner at my place, and I'll acquaint you with the facts then. The choice is yours."

"Why can't you tell me now?"

"Because I'm enjoying my breakfast and your company. Once you're enlightened, you probably won't want to see me again."

She frowns as she processes what I've said. "Tonight," she says.

Whoa. That didn't take long.

"Like Eve, you're so quick to eat from the tree of knowledge," I taunt her.

"Are you smirking at me, Mr. Salvatore?" she asks.

I look at her through narrowed eyes.

Okay, baby, you asked for this.

I pick up my phone and press Taylor on speed dial. He answers almost immediately.

"Mr. Salvatore."

"Taylor. I'm going to need Charlie Tango."

She watches me closely as I make arrangements to bring my EC135 to Portland.

I'll show her what I have in mind… and the rest will be up to her. She may want to come home once she knows. I'll need Christian, my pilot, to be on standby so he can bring her back to Portland if she decides to have nothing more to do with me. I hope that's not the case.

And it dawns on me that I'm thrilled that I can take her to Seattle in Charlie Tango.

It'll be a first.

"Standby pilot from 22:30," I confirm with Taylor and hang up.

"Do people always do what you tell them?" she asks, and the disapproval in her voice is obvious. Is she scolding me now? Her challenge is annoying.

"Usually, if they want to keep their jobs." Don't question how I treat my staff.

"And if they don't work for you?" she adds.

"Oh, I can be very persuasive, Elena. You should finish your breakfast. And then I'll drop you off at home. I'll pick you up at Clayton's at eight when you finish. We'll fly up to Seattle."

"Fly?"

"Yes. I have a helicopter."

Her mouth drops open, forming a small o. It's a pleasing moment. "We'll go by helicopter to Seattle?" she whispers.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I can." I grin. Sometimes it's just fucking great to be me. "Finish your breakfast." She seems stunned.

"Eat!" My voice is more forceful. "Elena, I have an issue with wasted food. Eat."

"I can't eat all this." She studies all the food on the table and I feel guilty once more. Yes, there is too much food here.

"Eat what's on your plate. If you'd eaten properly yesterday, you wouldn't be here, and I wouldn't be declaring my hand so soon."

Hell. This could be a huge mistake.

She gives me a sideways look as she chases her food around on the plate with a fork, and her mouth twitches.

"What's so funny?"

She shakes her head and pops the last piece of pancake into her mouth, and I try not to laugh. As ever, she surprises me. She's awkward, unexpected, and disarming. She really makes me want to laugh, and what's more, it's at myself.

"Good girl," I mutter. "I'll take you home when you've dried your hair. I don't want you getting ill."

You'll need all your strength for tonight, for what I have to show you.

Suddenly, she gets up from the table and I have to stop myself from telling her that she doesn't have permission.

She's not your submissive… yet, Salvatore.

On the way back to the bedroom, she pauses by the sofa.

"Where did you sleep last night?" she asks.

"In my bed." With you.

"Oh."

"Yes, it was quite a novelty for me, too."

"Not having… sex."

She said the s-word… and the telltale pink cheeks appear. "No."

How can I tell her this, without it sounding weird? Just tell her, Salvatore.

"Sleeping with someone." Nonchalantly, I turn my attention back to the sports section and the write-up on last night's game, then watch as she disappears into the bedroom.

No, that didn't sound weird at all.

Well, I have another date with Miss Gilbert. No, not a date. She needs to know about me. I let out a long breath and drink what's left of my orange juice. This is shaping up to be a very interesting day. I'm pleased when I hear the buzz of the hair dryer and surprised that she's doing what she's been told.

While I'm waiting for her, I phone the valet to bring my car up from the garage and check her address once more on Google Maps. Next, I text Andrea to send me an NDA via e-mail; if Elena wants enlightenment, she'll need to keep her mouth shut. My phone buzzes. It's Ros.

As I'm on the phone, Elena emerges from the bedroom and picks up her purse. Ros is talking about Darfur, but my attention is on Miss Gilbert. She rummages around in her purse and she's pleased when she finds a hair tie.

Her hair is beautiful. Lush. Long. Thick. Idly, I wonder what it would be like to braid. She ties it back and puts on her jacket, then sits down on the sofa, waiting for me to finish my call.

"Okay, let's do it. Keep me abreast of progress." I conclude my conversation with Ros. She's been working miracles and it looks like our food shipment to Darfur is happening.

"Ready to go?" I ask Elena. She nods. I grab my jacket and car keys and follow her out the door. She peeks at me through long lashes as we walk toward the elevator, and her lips curl into a shy smile. My lips twitch in response.

What the hell is she doing to me?

The elevator arrives, and I allow her to step in first. I press the first-floor button and the doors close. In the confines of the elevator, I'm completely aware of her. A trace of her sweet fragrance invades my senses… Her breathing alters, hitching a little, and she peeks up at me with a bright come-get-her look.

Shit.

She bites her lip.

She's doing this on purpose. And for a split second I'm lost in her sensual, mesmerizing stare. She doesn't back down.

I'm hard.

Instantly.

I want her.

Here.

Now.

In the elevator.

"Oh, fuck the paperwork." The words come from nowhere and on instinct I grab her and push her against the wall. Clasping both her hands, I pin them above her head so she can't touch me, and once she's secure, I twist my other hand in her hair while my lips seek and find hers.

She moans into my mouth, the call of a siren, and finally I can sample her: mint and tea and an orchard of mellow fruitfulness. She tastes every bit as good as she looks. Reminding me of a time of plenty. Good Lord. I'm yearning for her. I grasp her chin, deepening the kiss, and her tongue tentatively touches mine… exploring. Considering. Feeling. Kissing me back.

Oh, God in heaven.

"You. Are. So. Sweet," I murmur against her lips, completely intoxicated, punch-drunk with her scent and taste.

The elevator stops and the doors begin to open.

Get a fucking grip, Salvatore.

I push myself off her and stand beyond her reach.

She's breathing hard.

As am I.

When was the last time I lost control?

Three men in business suits give us knowing looks as they join us.

And I stare at the poster that's above the buttons in the elevator advertising a sensual weekend at The Heathman. I glance at Elena and exhale.

She grins.

And my lips twitch once more.

What the fuck has she done to me?

The elevator stops at the second floor and the guys get out, leaving me alone with Miss Gilbert.

"You've brushed your teeth," I observe with wry amusement.

"I used your toothbrush," she says, eyes shining.

Of course she has… and for some reason, I find this pleasing, too pleasing. I stifle my smile. "Oh, Elena Gilbert, what am I going to do with you?" I take her hand as the elevator doors open on the ground floor, and I mutter under my breath, "What is it about elevators?" She gives me a knowing look as we stroll across the polished marble of the lobby.

The car is waiting in one of the bays in front of the hotel; the valet is pacing impatiently. I give him an obscene tip and open the passenger door for Elena, who is quiet and introspective.

But she hasn't run.

Even though I jumped her in the elevator.

I should say something about what happened in there—but what?

Sorry?

How was that for you?

What the hell are you doing to me?

I start the car and decide that the less said, the better. The soothing sound of Delibes's "Flower Duet" fills the car and I begin to relax.

"What are we listening to?" Elena inquires, as I turn onto Southwest Jefferson Street. I tell her and ask her if she likes it.

"Stefan, it's wonderful."

To hear my name on her lips is a strange delight. She's said it about half a dozen times now, and each time it's different. Today, it's with wonder—at the music. It's great that she likes this piece: it's one of my favorites. I find myself beaming; she's obviously excused me for the elevator outburst.

"Can I hear that again?"

"Of course." I tap the touch screen to replay the music.

"You like classical music?" she asks, as we cross the Fremont Bridge, and we fall into an easy conversation about my taste in music. While we're talking I get a call on the hands-free.

"Salvatore," I answer.

"Mr. Salvatore, it's Welch here. I have the information you require." Oh yes, details about the photographer.

"Good. E –mail it to me. Anything to add?"

"No, sir."

I press the button and the music is back. We both listen, now lost in the raw sound of the Kings of Leon. But it doesn't last long—our listening pleasure is disturbed once more by the hands-free. What the hell?

"Salvatore," I snap.

"The NDA has been e-mailed to you, Mr. Salvatore."

"Good. That's all, Andrea."

"Good day, sir."

I sneak a look at Elena, to see if she's picked up on that conversation, but she's studying the Portland scenery. I suspect she's being polite. It's difficult to keep my eyes on the road. I want to stare at her. For all her maladroitness, she has a beautiful neckline, one that I'd like to kiss from the bottom of her ear right down to her shoulder.

Hell. I shuffle in my seat. I hope she agrees to sign the NDA and to take what I have to offer. When we join I-5 I get another call.

It's Elliot.

"Hi, Stefan, d'you get laid?" Oh… smooth, dude, smooth.

"Hello, Elliot—I'm on speakerphone, and I'm not alone in the car."

"Who's with you?"

"Elena Gilbert."

"Hi, Elena!"

"Hello, Elliot," she says, animated.

"Heard a lot about you," Elliot says.

Shit. What has he heard?

"Don't believe a word Kate says," she responds good-naturedly.

Elliot laughs.

"I'm dropping Elena off now. Shall I pick you up?" I interject. There's no doubt Elliot will want to make a quick getaway.

"Sure."

"See you shortly." I hang up.

I glance at Elena for a moment. She's smiling to herself. She's beautiful. And in that moment I know that her rejection, when it comes, will be hard to take. It's happened before, but I've never felt this… invested. I don't even know this girl, but I want to know her, all of her. Maybe it's because I've never chased a woman.

Salvatore, get control of yourself and follow the rules, otherwise this will all go to shit.

"Elena," I say, ignoring her disapproving look. "What happened in the elevator—it won't happen again—well, not unless it's premeditated."

That keeps her quiet as I park outside her apartment. Before she can answer me I climb out of the car, walk around and open her door.

As she steps onto the sidewalk, she gives me a fleeting glance. "I liked what happened in the elevator," she says.

You did? Her confession halts me in my tracks. I'm pleasantly surprised again by little Miss Gilbert. As she walks up the steps to the front door, I have to scramble to keep up with her.

Elliot and Kate look up when we enter. They're sitting at a dining table in a sparsely furnished room, befitting a couple of students. There are a few packing boxes beside a bookshelf. Elliot looks relaxed and not in a hurry to leave, which surprises me.

Kavanagh jumps up and gives me a critical once-over as she hugs Elena.

What did she think I was going to do to the girl?

I know what I'd like to do to her…

As Kavanagh holds her at arm's length I'm reassured; maybe she does care for Elena, too.

"Good morning, Stefan," she says, her tone cool and condescending.

"Miss Kavanagh." And what I want to say is something sarcastic about how she's finally showing some interest in her friend, but I hold my tongue.

"Stefan, her name is Kate," Elliot says with mild irritation.

"Kate," I mutter, to be polite. Elliot hugs Elena, holding her for a moment too long.

"Hi, Elena," he says, all fucking smiles.

"Hi, Elliot." She beams.

Okay, this is becoming unbearable. "Elliot, we'd better go." And take your hands off her.

"Sure," he says, releasing Elena, but grabbing Kavanagh and making an unseemly show of kissing her.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Elena's uncomfortable watching them. I don't blame her. But when she turns to me it's with a speculative look through narrowed eyes.

What is she thinking?

"Laters, baby," Elliot mutters, slobbering over Kavanagh.

Dude, show some dignity, for heaven's sake.

Elena's reproachful eyes are on me, and for a moment I don't know if it's because of Elliot and Kate's lascivious display or—Hell! This is what she wants. To be courted and wooed.

I don't do romance, sweetheart.

A lock of her hair has broken free, and without thinking, I tuck it behind her ear. She leans her face into my fingers, the tender gesture surprising me. My thumb strays to her soft bottom lip, which I'd like to kiss again. But I can't. Not until I have her consent.

"Laters, baby," I whisper, and her face softens with a smile. "I'll pick you up at eight." Reluctantly, I turn away and open the front door, Elliot behind me.

"Man, I need some sleep," Elliot says, as soon as we're in the car. "That woman is voracious."

"Really… " My voice drips with sarcasm. The last thing I want is a blow-by-blow account of his assignation.

"How about you, hotshot? Did she pop your cherry?" I give him a sideways "fuck off" glare.

Elliot laughs. "Man, you are one uptight son of a bitch." He pulls his Sounders cap over his face and nestles down in his seat for a nap.

I turn up the volume of the music.

Sleep through that, Lelliot!

Yeah. I envy my brother: his ease with women, his ability to sleep… and the fact that he's not the son of a bitch.

José Luis Rodriguez's background check reveals a ticket for possession of marijuana. There is nothing in his police records for sexual harassment. Maybe last night would have been a first if I hadn't intervened. And the little prick smokes weed? I hope he doesn't smoke around Elena—and I hope she doesn't smoke, period.

Opening Andrea's e-mail, I send the NDA to the printer in my study at home in Escala. Elena will need to sign it before I show her my playroom. And in a moment of weakness, or hubris, or perhaps unprecedented optimism—I don't know which—I fill in her name and address on my standard Dom/sub contract and send that to print, too.

There's a knock at the door.

"Hey, hotshot. Let's go hiking," Elliot says through the door. Ah… the child has woken from his nap.

The scent of pine, fresh damp earth, and late spring is a balm to my senses. The smell reminds me of those heady days of my childhood, running through a forest with Elliot and my sister Mia under the watchful eyes of our adoptive parents. The quiet, the space, the freedom… the scrunch of dry pine needles underfoot.

Here in the great outdoors I could forget.

Here was a refuge from my nightmares.

Elliot chatters away, needing only the occasional grunt from me to keep talking. As we make our way along the pebbled shore of the Willamette my mind strays to Elena. For the first time in a long time, I have a sweet sense of anticipation. I'm excited.

Will she say yes to my proposal?

I picture her sleeping beside me, soft and small… and my cock twitches with expectation. I could have woken her and fucked her then—what a novelty that would have been.

I'll fuck her in time.

I'll fuck her bound and with her smart mouth gagged.

Clayton's is quiet. The last customer left five minutes ago. And I'm waiting—again—drumming my fingers on my thighs. Patience is not my forte. Even the long hike with Elliot today has not dampened my restlessness. He's having dinner with Kate this evening at The Heathman. Two dates on consecutive nights is not his usual style.

Suddenly the fluorescent lights inside the store flicker off, the front door opens, and Elena steps out into a mild Portland evening. My heart begins to hammer. This is it: either the beginning of a new relationship or the beginning of the end. She waves good-bye to a young man who's followed her out. It's not the same man I met the last time I was here—it's someone new. He watches her walk toward the car, his eyes on her ass. Taylor distracts me by making a move to climb out of the car, but I stop him. This is my call. When I'm out of the car holding the door open for her, the new guy is locking up the store and no longer ogling Miss Gilbert.

Her lips curve into a shy smile as she approaches, her hair in a jaunty ponytail swinging in the evening breeze.

"Good evening, Miss Gilbert."

"Mr. Salvatore," she says. She's dressed in black jeans… Jeans again. She greets Taylor as she climbs into the backseat of the car.

Once I'm beside her I clasp her hand, while Taylor pulls out onto the empty road and heads to the Portland helipad. "How was work?" I ask, enjoying the feel of her hand in mine. "Very long," she says, her voice husky.

"Yes, it's been a long day for me, too."

It's been hell waiting for the last couple of hours!

"What did you do?" she asks.

"I went hiking with Elliot." Her hand is warm and soft. She glances down at our joined fingers and I brush her knuckles with my thumb over and over. Her breath catches and her eyes meet mine. In them I see her longing and desire… and her sense of anticipation. I just hope she accepts my proposition.

Mercifully, the drive to the helipad is short. When we're out of the car I take her hand again. She looks a little perplexed.

Ah. She's wondering where the helicopter might be.

"Ready?" I ask. She nods, and I lead her into the building toward the elevator. She gives me a quick knowing look.

She's remembering the kiss from this morning, but then… so am I.

"It's only three floors," I mutter.

As we stand inside I make a mental note to fuck her in an elevator one day. That's if she agrees to my deal.

On the roof Charlie Tango, newly arrived from Boeing Field, is prepped and ready to fly, though there's no sign of Christian, who's brought her down here. But Joe, who runs the helipad in Portland, is in the small office. He salutes when I see him. He's older than my grandpa, and what he doesn't know about flying is not worth knowing; he flew Sikorskys in Korea for casualty evacuation, and boy, does he have some hair-raising stories.

"Here's your flight plan, Mr. Salvatore," Joe says, his gravelly voice betraying his age. "All external checks are done. She's ready and waiting, sir. You're good to go."

"Thank you, Joe."

A quick glance at Elena tells me that she's excited… and so am I. This is a first.

"Let's go." With her hand in mine once more, I lead Elena over the helipad to Charlie Tango. The safest Eurocopter in her class and a delight to fly. She's my pride and joy. I hold the door open for Elena; she scrambles inside and I climb in behind her.

"Over there," I order, pointing to the front passenger seat. "Sit. Don't touch anything." I'm amazed when she does as she's told.

Once in her seat, she examines the array of instruments with a mixture of awe and enthusiasm. Crouching down beside her, I strap her into the seat harness, trying not to imagine her naked as I do it. I take a little longer than is necessary because this might be my last chance to be this close to her, my last chance to inhale her sweet, evocative scent. Once she knows about my predilections she may flee… on the other hand, she may embrace the lifestyle. The possibilities this conjures in my mind are almost overwhelming. She's watching me intently, she's so close… so lovely. I tighten the last strap. She's not going anywhere. Not for an hour at least.

Suppressing my excitement, I whisper, "You're secure. No escaping." She inhales sharply. "Breathe, Elena," I add, and caress her cheek. Holding her chin, I lean down and kiss her quickly. "I like this harness," I mutter. I want to tell her I have others, in leather, in which I'd like to see her trussed and suspended from the ceiling. But I behave, sit down, and buckle up.

"Put your cans on." I point to the headset in front of Elena. "I'm just going through all the preflight checks." All instruments look good. I press the throttle to 1500 rpm, transponder to stand-by, and position beacon on. Everything is set and ready to go.

"Do you know what you're doing?" she asks with wonder. I inform her that I've been a fully qualified pilot for four years. Her smile is infectious.

"You're safe with me," I reassure her, and add, "Well, while we're flying." I give her a wink, she beams, and I'm dazzled.

"Are you ready?" I ask—and I can't quite believe how excited I am to have her here beside me.

She nods.

I talk to the tower—they're awake—and increase the throttle to 2000 rpm. Once they've given us clearance I do my final checks. Oil temperature is at 104. Good. I increase the manifold pressure to 14, the engine to 2500 rpm, and pull back on the throttle. And like the elegant bird she is… Charlie Tango rises into the air.

Elena gasps as the ground disappears below us, but she holds her tongue, entranced by the waning lights of Portland. Soon we are shrouded in darkness; the only light emanates from the instruments before us. Elena's face is illuminated by the red and green glow as she stares into the night.

"Eerie, isn't it?"

Though I don't find it so. To me this is a comfort. Nothing can harm me here.

I'm safe and hidden in the dark.

"How do you know you're going the right way?" Elena asks.

"Here." I point to the panel. I don't want to bore her talking about instrument flight rules, but the fact is it's all the equipment in front of me that guides us to our destination: the attitude indicator, the altimeter, the VSI, and of course the GPS. I tell her about Charlie Tango, and how she's equipped for night flight.

Elena looks at me, amazed.

"There's a helipad on top of the building I live in. That's where we're heading."

I look back at the panel, checking all the data. This is what I love: the control, my safety and wellbeing reliant on my mastery of the technology in front of me. "When you fly at night, you fly blind. You have to trust the instrumentation," I tell her.

"How long will the flight be?" she asks, a little breathless.

"Less than an hour—the wind is in our favor." I glance at her again. "You okay, Elena?"

"Yes," she says, her voice oddly abrupt.

Is she nervous? Or maybe she's regretting her decision to be here with me. The thought is unsettling. She hasn't given me a chance. I'm distracted by air-traffic control for a moment. Then, as we clear cloud cover, I see Seattle in the distance, a beacon blazing in the dark.

"Look, over there." I direct Elena's attention to the bright lights.

"Do you always impress women this way? 'Come and fly in my helicopter'?"

"I've never brought a girl up here, Elena. It's another first for me. Are you impressed?"

"I'm awed, Stefan," she whispers.

"Awed?" My smile is spontaneous. And I remember Grace, my mother, stroking my hair as I read out loud from The Once and Future King.

"Stefan, that was wonderful. I'm awed, darling boy." I was seven and had only recently started speaking.

"You're just so… competent," Elena continues.

"Why, thank you, Miss Gilbert." My face warms with pleasure at her unexpected praise. I hope she doesn't notice.

"You obviously enjoy this," she says a little later.

"What?"

"Flying."

"It requires control and concentration." Two qualities I most enjoy. "How could I not love it? Though my favorite is soaring."

"Soaring?"

"Yes. Gliding, to the layperson. Gliders and helicopters—I fly them both." Perhaps I should take her soaring?

Getting ahead of yourself, Salvatore.

And since when do you take anyone soaring?

Since when do I bring anyone in Charlie Tango?

ATC refocuses me on the flight path, halting my rogue thoughts as we approach the outskirts of Seattle. We're close. And I'm closer to knowing whether this is a pipe dream or not. Elena is staring out the window, entranced.

I can't keep my eyes off her.

Please say yes.

"Looks good, doesn't it?" I ask, so that she'll turn and I can see her face. She does, with a huge cock-tightening grin. "We'll be there in a few minutes," I add.

Suddenly the atmosphere in the cabin shifts and I have a more heightened awareness of her. Breathing deeply, I inhale her scent and sense the anticipation. Elena's. Mine.

As we descend I take Charlie Tango through the downtown area toward Escala, my home, and my heart rate increases. Elena starts fidgeting. She's nervous, too. I hope she doesn't flee.

As the helipad comes into view, I take another deep breath. This is it.

We land smoothly and I power down, watching the rotor blades slow and come to a stop. All I can hear is the hiss of white noise over our headphones as we sit in silence. I remove my cans, then remove Elena's, too. "We're here," I say quietly. Her face is pale in the glow of the landing lights, her eyes luminous.

Sweet Lord, she's beautiful.

I unbuckle my harness and reach over to undo hers.

She peers up at me. Trusting. Young. Sweet. Her delicious scent is almost my undoing. Can I do this with her?

She's an adult.

She can make her own decisions.

And I want her to look at me this way once she knows me… knows what I'm capable of. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. You know that, don't you?" She needs to understand this. I want her submission, but more than that I want her consent.

"I'd never do anything I didn't want to do, Stefan." She sounds sincere and I want to believe her. With those pacifying words ringing in my head, I climb out of my seat and open the door, then jump down onto the helipad. I take her hand as she exits the aircraft. The wind whips her hair around her face, and she looks anxious. I don't know if it's because she's here with me, alone, or if it's because we're thirty stories high. I know it's a giddy feeling being up here.

"Come." Wrapping my arm around her to shield her from the wind, I guide her to the elevator.

We are both quiet as we make the short journey to the penthouse. She's wearing a pale green shirt beneath her black jacket. It suits her. I make a mental note to include blues and greens in the clothes I'll provide if she agrees to my terms. She should be better dressed. Her eyes meet mine in the elevator's mirrors as the doors open to my apartment.

She follows me through the foyer, across the corridor, and into the living room. "Can I take your jacket?" I ask. Elena shakes her head and clutches the lapels to emphasize that she wants to keep her jacket on. Okay.

"Would you like a drink?" I try a different approach and decide that I need a drink to steady my nerves.

Why am I so nervous?

Because I want her…

"I'm going to have a glass of white wine. Would you like to join me?"

"Yes, please," she says.

In the kitchen I slip off my jacket and open the wine fridge. A sauvignon blanc would be a good icebreaker. Pulling out a serviceable Pouilly-Fumé, I watch Elena peer through the balcony doors at the view. When she turns and walks back toward the kitchen I ask if she'd be happy with the wine I've selected.

"I know nothing about wine, Stefan. I'm sure it will be fine." She sounds subdued.

Shit. This isn't going well. Is she overwhelmed? Is that it?

I pour two glasses and walk to where she stands in the middle of my living room, looking every bit the sacrificial lamb. Gone is the disarming woman. She looks lost.

Like me…

"Here." I hand her the glass, and she immediately takes a sip, closing her eyes in obvious appreciation of the wine. When she lowers the glass her lips are moist.

Good choice, Salvatore.

"You're very quiet, and you're not even blushing. In fact, I think this is the palest I've ever seen you, Elena. Are you hungry?"

She shakes her head and takes another sip. Maybe she's in need of some liquid courage, too. "It's a very big place you have here," she says, her voice timid.

"Big?"

"Big."

"It's big." There's no arguing with that; it is more than ten thousand square feet.

"Do you play?" She looks at the piano.

"Yes."

"Well?"

"Yes."

"Of course you do. Is there anything you can't do well?"

"Yes… a few things." Cook. Tell jokes. Make free and easy conversation with a woman I'm attracted to. Be touched…

"Do you want to sit?" I gesture toward the sofa. A brisk nod tells me that she does. Taking her hand, I lead her there, and she sits down, giving me an impish look.

"What's so amusing?" I ask, as I take a seat beside her.

"Why did you give me Tess of the d'Urbervilles, specifically?"

Oh. Where is this going? "Well, you said you liked Thomas Hardy."

"Is that the only reason?"

I don't want to tell her that she has my first edition, and that it was a better choice than Jude the Obscure. "It seemed appropriate. I could hold you to some impossibly high ideal like Angel Clare or debase you completely like Alec d'Urberville." My answer is truthful enough and has a certain irony to it. What I'm about to propose I suspect will be very far from her expectations.

"If there are only two choices, I'll take the debasement," she whispers.

Damn. Isn't that what you want, Salvatore?

"Elena, stop biting your lip, please. It's very distracting. You don't know what you're saying."

"That's why I'm here," she says, her teeth leaving little indentations on a bottom lip moist with wine.

And there she is: disarming once more, surprising me at every turn. My cock concurs.

We are cutting to the chase on this deal, but before we explore the details, I need her to sign the NDA. I excuse myself and head into my study. The contract and NDA are ready on the printer. Leaving the contract on my desk—I don't know if we'll ever get to it—I staple the NDA together and take it back to Elena.

"This is a nondisclosure agreement." I place it on the coffee table in front of her. She looks confused and surprised. "My lawyer insists on it," I add. "If you're going for option two, debasement, you'll need to sign this."

"And if I don't want to sign anything?"

"Then it's Angel Clare high ideals, well, for most of the book anyway." And I won't be able to touch you. I'll send you home with Christian, and I will try my very best to forget you. My anxiety mushrooms; this deal could all go to shit.

"What does this agreement mean?"

"It means you cannot disclose anything about us. Anything, to anyone." She searches my face and I don't know if she's confused or displeased.

This could go either way.

"Okay. I'll sign," she says.

Well, that was easy. I hand her my Mont Blanc and she places the pen at the signature line. "Aren't you even going to read it?" I ask, suddenly annoyed.

"No."

"Elena, you should always read anything you sign." How could she be so foolish? Have her parents taught her nothing?

"Stefan, what you fail to understand is that I wouldn't talk about us to anyone anyway. Even Kate. So it's immaterial whether I sign an agreement or not. If it means so much to you, or your lawyer, whom you obviously talk to, then fine. I'll sign."

She has an answer for everything. It's refreshing. "Fair point well made, Miss Gilbert," I note dryly.

With a quick, disapproving glance, she signs.

And before I can begin my pitch, she asks, "Does this mean you're going to make love to me tonight, Stefan?"

What? Me? Make love?

Oh, Salvatore, let's disabuse her of this straightaway. "No, Elena, it doesn't. First, I don't make love. I fuck, hard."

She gasps. That's made her think.

"Second, there's a lot more paperwork to do. And third, you don't yet know what you're in for. You could still run from here screaming! Come, I want to show you my playroom."

She's nonplussed, the little v forming between her brows. "You want to play on your Xbox?"

I laugh out loud.

Oh, baby.

"No, Elena, no Xbox, no PlayStation. Come." Standing, I offer her my hand, which she takes willingly. I lead her to the hallway and upstairs, where I stop outside the door to my playroom, my heart hammering in my chest.

This is it. Pay or play. Have I ever been this nervous? Realizing my desires depend on the turn of this key, I unlock the door, and in that moment I need to reassure her. "You can leave anytime. The helicopter is on standby to take you whenever you want to go; you can stay the night and go home in the morning. It's fine, whatever you decide."

"Just open the damn door, Stefan," she says with a mulish expression and her arms crossed.

This is the crossroads. I don't want her to run. But I've never felt this exposed. Even in Katherine's hands… and I know it's because she knows nothing about the lifestyle.

I open the door and follow her into my playroom. My safe place. The only place where I'm truly myself.

Elena stands in the middle of the room, studying all the paraphernalia that is so much a part of my life: the floggers, the canes, the bed, the bench… She's silent, drinking it in, and all I hear is the deafening pounding of my heart as the blood rushes past my eardrums.

Now you know. This is me.

She turns and gives me a piercing stare as I wait for her to say something, but she prolongs my agony and walks farther into the room, forcing me to follow her.

Her fingers trail over a suede flogger, one of my favorites. I tell her what it's called, but she doesn't respond. She walks over to the bed, her hands exploring, her fingers running over one of the carved pillars.

"Say something," I ask. Her silence is unbearable. I need to know if she's going to run.

"Do you do this to people or do they do it to you?"

Finally!

"People?" I want to snort. "I do this to women who want me to." She's willing to have a dialogue. There's hope.

She frowns. "If you have willing volunteers, why am I here?"

"Because I want to do this with you, very much." Visions of her tied up in various positions around the room overwhelm my imagination; on the cross, on the bed, over the bench…

"Oh," she says, and wanders to the bench. My eyes are drawn to her inquisitive fingers stroking the leather. Her touch is curious, slow, and sensual—is she even aware? "You're a sadist?" she says, startling me.

Fuck. She sees me.

"I'm a Dominant," I say quickly, hoping to move the conversation on.

"What does that mean?" she inquires, shocked, I think.

"It means I want you to willingly surrender yourself to me, in all things."

"Why would I do that?"

"To please me," I whisper. This is what I need from you. "In very simple terms, I want you to want to please me."

"How do I do that?" she breathes.

"I have rules, and I want you to comply with them. They are for your benefit and for my pleasure. If you follow these rules to my satisfaction, I shall reward you. If you don't, I shall punish you, and you will learn."

And I can't wait to train you. In every way.

She stares at the canes behind the bench. "And where does all this fit in?" She waves at her surroundings.

"It's all part of the incentive package. Both reward and punishment."

"So you'll get your kicks by exerting your will over me."

Spot on, Miss Gilbert.

"It's about gaining your trust and your respect, so you'll let me exert my will over you." I need your permission, baby. "I will gain a great deal of pleasure, joy even, in your submission. The more you submit, the greater my joy—it's a very simple equation."

"Okay, and what do I get out of this?"

"Me." I shrug. That's it, baby. Just me. All of me. And you'll find pleasure, too…

Her eyes widen fractionally as she stares at me, saying nothing. It's exasperating. "You're not giving anything away, Elena. Let's go back downstairs where I can concentrate better. It's very distracting having you in here."

I hold out my hand to her and for the first time she looks from my hand to my face, undecided.

Shit.

I've frightened her. "I'm not going to hurt you, Elena."

Tentatively she puts her hand in mine. I'm elated. She hasn't run.

Relieved, I decide to show her the submissive's bedroom.

"If you do this, let me show you." I lead her down the corridor. "This will be your room. You can decorate it how you like, have whatever you like in here."

"My room? You're expecting me to move in?" she squeaks in disbelief.

Okay. Maybe I should have left this until later.

"Not full-time," I reassure her. "Just, say, Friday evening through Sunday. We have to talk about all that. Negotiate. If you want to do this."

"I'll sleep here?"

"Yes."

"Not with you."

"No. I told you, I don't sleep with anyone, except you when you're stupefied with drink."

"Where do you sleep?"

"My room is downstairs. Come, you must be hungry."

"Weirdly, I seem to have lost my appetite," she declares, with her familiar stubborn expression.

"You must eat, Elena."

Her eating habits will be one of the first issues I'll work on if she agrees to be mine… that, and her fidgeting.

Stop getting ahead of yourself, Salvatore!

"I'm fully aware that this is a dark path I'm leading you down, Elena, which is why I really want you to think about this."

She follows me downstairs into the living room once more.

"You must have some questions. You've signed your NDA; you can ask me anything you want and I'll answer."

If this is going to work, she's going to have to communicate. In the kitchen I open the fridge and find a large plate of cheese and some grapes. Gail wasn't expecting me to have company, and this is not enough… I wonder if I should order some takeout. Or perhaps take her out? Like a date.

Another date.

I don't want to raise expectations like that. I don't do dates.

Only with her…

The thought is irritating. There's a fresh baguette in the bread basket. Bread and cheese will have to do. Besides, she says she's not hungry.

"Sit." I point to one of the barstools and Elena sits down and gives me a level gaze.

"You mentioned paperwork," she says.

"Yes."

"What paperwork?"

"Well, apart from the NDA, a contract saying what we will and won't do. I need to know your limits, and you need to know mine. This is consensual, Elena."

"And if I don't want to do this?"

Shit.

"That's fine," I lie.

"But we won't have any sort of relationship?"

"No."

"Why?"

"This is the only sort of relationship I'm interested in."

"Why?"

"It's the way I am."

"How did you become this way?"

"Why is anyone the way they are? That's kind of hard to answer. Why do some people like cheese and other people hate it? Do you like cheese? Mrs. Jones—my housekeeper—has left this for a late supper." I place the plate in front of her.

"What are your rules that I have to follow?"

"I have them written down. We'll go through them once we've eaten."

"I'm really not hungry," she whispers.

"You will eat."

The look she gives me is defiant.

"Would you like another glass of wine?" I ask, as a peace offering.

"Yes, please."

I pour wine into her glass and sit down beside her. "Help yourself to food, Elena." She takes a few grapes.

That's it? That's all you're eating?

"Have you been like this for a while?" she asks.

"Yes."

"Is it easy to find women who want to do this?"

Oh, if you only knew. "You'd be amazed." My tone is wry.

"Then why me? I really don't understand." She's utterly bemused.

Baby, you're beautiful. Why wouldn't I want to do this with you?

"Elena, I've told you. There's something about you. I can't leave you alone. I'm like a moth to a flame. I want you very badly, especially now, when you're biting your lip again."

"I think you have that cliché the wrong way around," she says softly, and it's a disturbing confession.

"Eat!" I order, to change the subject.

"No. I haven't signed anything yet, so I think I'll hang on to my free will for a bit longer, if that's okay with you."

Oh… her smart mouth.

"As you wish, Miss Gilbert." And I hide my smirk.

"How many women?" she asks, and she pops a grape into that mouth.

"Fifteen." I have to look away.

"For long periods of time?"

"Some of them, yes."

"Have you ever hurt anyone?"

"Yes."

"Badly?"

"No." Dawn was fine, if a little shaken by the experience. And if I'm honest, so was I.

"Will you hurt me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Physically, will you hurt me?" Only what you can take.

"I will punish you when you require it, and it will be painful." For example, when you get drunk and put yourself at risk.

"Have you ever been beaten?" she asks.

"Yes."

Many, many times. Katherine was devilishly handy with a cane. It's the only touch I could tolerate.

Her eyes widen and she puts the uneaten grapes on her plate and takes another sip of wine. Her lack of appetite is irritating and is affecting mine. Perhaps I should just bite the bullet and show her the rules.

"Let's discuss this in my study. I want to show you something."

She follows me and sits in the leather chair in front of my desk as I lean against it, arms folded.

This is what she wants to know. It's a blessing that she's curious—she hasn't run yet. From the contract laid out on my desk I take one of the pages and hand it to her. "These are the rules. They may be subject to change. They form part of the contract, which you can also have. Read these rules and let's discuss."

Her eyes scan the page. "Hard limits?" she asks.

"Yes. What you won't do, what I won't do, we need to specify in our agreement."

"I'm not sure about accepting money for clothes. It feels wrong."

"I want to lavish money on you. Let me buy you some clothes. I may need you to accompany me to functions."

Salvatore, what are you saying? This would be a first. "And I want you dressed well. I'm sure your salary, when you do get a job, won't cover the kind of clothes I'd like you to wear."

"I don't have to wear them when I'm not with you?"

"No."

"Okay. I don't want to exercise four times a week."

"Elena, I need you supple, strong, and with stamina. Trust me, you need to exercise."

"But surely not four times a week. How about three?"

"I want you to do four."

"I thought this was a negotiation?"

Again, she's disarming, calling me out on my shit. "Okay, Miss Gilbert, another point well made. How about an hour on three days and one day half an hour?"

"Three days, three hours. I get the impression you're going to keep me exercised when I'm here."

Oh, I hope so.

"Yes, I am. Okay, agreed. Are you sure you don't want to intern at my company? You're a good negotiator."

"No, I don't think that's a good idea."

Of course she's right. And it's my number-one rule: never fuck the staff.

"So, limits. These are mine." I hand her the list.

This is it, shit-or-bust time. I know my limits by heart, and mentally tick off the list as I watch her read through. Her face grows paler and paler as she nears the end.

Fuck, I hope this isn't frightening her off.

I want her. I want her submission… badly. She swallows, glancing nervously up at me. How can I persuade her to give this a try? I should reassure her, show her that I'm capable of caring.

"Is there anything you'd like to add?"

Deep down I hope she won't add anything. I want carte blanche with her. She stares at me, still at a loss for words. It's irritating. I'm not used to waiting for answers. "Is there anything you won't do?" I prompt.

"I don't know."

Not the response I was expecting.

"What do you mean you don't know?"

She shifts in her seat, looking uncomfortable, her teeth toying with her bottom lip. Again. "I've never done anything like this." Hell, of course she hasn't.

Patience, Salvatore. For fuck's sake. You've thrown a great deal of information at her. I continue my gentle approach. It's novel.

"Well, when you've had sex, was there anything that you didn't like doing?" And I'm reminded of the photographer fumbling all over her yesterday.

She flushes and my interest is piqued. What has she done that she didn't like? Is she adventurous in bed? She seems so—innocent. Normally I don't find that attractive.

"You can tell me, Elena. We have to be honest with each other or this isn't going to work." I really have to encourage her to loosen up—she won't even talk about sex. She's squirming again and staring at her fingers.

Come on, Elena.

"Tell me," I order. Sweet Lord, she's frustrating.

"Well, I've not had sex before, so I don't know," she whispers.

The earth stops spinning.

I don't fucking believe it.

How?

Why?

Fuck!

"Never?" I'm incredulous.

She shakes her head, eyes wide.

"You're a virgin?" I don't believe it.

She nods, embarrassed. I close my eyes. I can't look at her.

How the hell did I get this so wrong?

Anger lances through me. What can I do with a virgin? I glare at her as fury surges through my body.

"Why the fuck didn't you tell me?" I growl, and start pacing my study. What do I want with a virgin? She shrugs apologetically, at a loss for words.

"I don't understand why you didn't tell me." The exasperation is clear in my voice.

"The subject never came up," she says. "I'm not in the habit of revealing my sexual status to everyone I meet. I mean, we hardly know each other."

As ever, it's a fair point. I can't believe I've given her the bus tour of my playroom—thank heavens for the NDA.

"Well, you know a lot more about me now," I snarl. "I knew you were inexperienced, but a virgin! Hell, Elena, I just showed you… "

Not only the playroom: my rules, hard limits. She knows nothing. How could I do this? "May God forgive me," I mutter under my breath. I'm at a loss.

A startling thought occurs to me—our one kiss in the elevator, where I could have fucked her there and then—was that her first kiss?

"Have you ever been kissed, apart from by me?" Please say yes.

"Of course I have." She looks offended. Yeah, she's been kissed, but not often. And for some reason the thought is… pleasing.

"And a nice young man hasn't swept you off your feet? I just don't understand. You're twenty-one, nearly twenty-two. You're beautiful." Why hasn't some guy taken her to bed?

Shit, maybe she's religious. No, Welch would have uncovered that. She gazes down at her fingers, and I think she's smiling. She thinks this is funny? I could kick myself. "And you're seriously discussing what I want to do, when you have no experience." Words fail me. How can this be?

"How have you avoided sex? Tell me, please." Because I don't get it. She's in college—and from what I remember of college all the kids were fucking like rabbits.

All of them. Except me.

The thought is a dark one, but I push it aside for the moment.

Elena shrugs, her small shoulders lifting slightly. "No one's really, you know…" She trails off.

No one has what? Seen how attractive you are? No one's lived up to your expectations—and I do? Me?

She really knows nothing. How could she ever be a submissive if she has no idea about sex? This is not going to fly… and all the groundwork I've done has been for nothing. I can't close this deal.

"Why are you so angry with me?" she whispers.

Of course she would think that. Make this right, Salvatore.

"I'm not angry with you, I'm angry at myself. I just assumed—" Why the hell would I be angry with you? What a mess this is. I run my hands through my hair, trying to rein in my temper.

"Do you want to go?" I ask, concerned.

"No, unless you want me to go," she says softly, her voice tinged with regret.

"Of course not. I like having you here." The statement surprises me as I say it. I do like having her here. Being with her. She's so… different. And I want to fuck her, and spank her, and watch her alabaster skin pink beneath my hands. That's out of the question now—isn't it? Perhaps not the fucking… perhaps I could. The thought is a revelation. I could take her to bed. Break her in. It would be a novel experience for both of us. Would she want to? She asked me earlier if I was going to make love to her. I could try, without tying her up.

But she might touch me.

Fuck. I glance down at my watch and note the time. It's late. When I look back at her the sight of her toying with her bottom lip arouses me.

I still want her, in spite of her innocence. Could I take her to bed? Would she want to, knowing what she knows about me now? Hell, I have no idea. Do I just ask her? But she's turning me on, biting her lip again. I point it out and she apologizes.

"Don't apologize. It's just that I want to bite it, too, hard." Her breath hitches.

Oh. Maybe she's interested. Yes. Let's do this. My decision is made. "Come," I offer, holding out my hand.

"What?"

"We're going to rectify the situation right now."

"What do you mean? What situation?"

"Your situation. Elena, I'm going to make love to you, now."

"Oh."

"That's if you want to. I mean, I don't want to push my luck."

"I thought you didn't make love. I thought you fucked hard," she says, her voice husky and so damned seductive, her eyes wide, pupils dilating. She's flushed with desire—she wants this, too.

And a wholly unexpected thrill unfurls inside me. "I can make an exception, or maybe combine the two, we'll see. I really want to make love to you. Please, come to bed with me. I want our arrangement to work, but you really need to have some idea what you're getting yourself into. We can start your training tonight—with the basics. This doesn't mean I've come over all hearts and flowers— it's a means to an end, but one that I want, and hopefully you do, too." The words rush out in a torrent.

Salvatore! Get ahold of yourself.

Her cheeks pink.

Come on, Elena, yes or no. I'm dying here.

"But I haven't done all the things you require from your list of rules." Her voice is timid. Is she afraid? I hope not. I don't want her to be afraid.

"Forget about the rules. Forget about all those details for tonight. I want you. I've wanted you since you fell into my office, and I know you want me. You wouldn't be sitting here calmly discussing punishment and hard limits if you didn't. Please, Elena, spend the night with me."

I offer her my hand again, and this time she takes it, and I pull her into my arms, holding her flush against my body. She gasps with surprise and I feel her against me. The darkness is quiet, perhaps subdued by my libido. I want her. She's so alluring. This girl confounds me, every step of the way. I've revealed my dark secret, yet she's still here; she hasn't run.

My fingers tug at her hair, pulling her face up to mine, and I gaze into captivating eyes.

"You are one brave young woman," I breathe. "I am in awe of you." I lean down and gently kiss her, then tease her lower lip with my teeth. "I want to bite this lip." I tug harder and she whimpers.

My cock hardens in response.

"Please, Elena, let me make love to you," I whisper against her mouth.

"Yes," she responds—and my body lights up like the Fourth of July.

Get a grip, Salvatore. We have no arrangement in place, no limits set, she's not mine to do with as I please—and yet I'm excited. Aroused. It's an unfamiliar but exhilarating feeling, desire for this woman coursing through me. I'm at the tipping edge of a giant roller coaster. Vanilla sex?

Can I do this?

Without another word I lead her out of my study, through the living room, and down the corridor to my bedroom. She follows, her hand tightly holding mine.

Shit. Contraception. I'm sure she's not on the pill… Fortunately, I have condoms for backup. At least I don't have to worry about every dick she's slept with. I release her by the bed, walk over to my chest of drawers, and remove my watch, shoes, and socks. "I assume you're not on the pill." She shakes her head.

"I didn't think so." From the drawer I take out a packet of condoms, letting her know I'm prepared. She studies me, her eyes impossibly large in her beautiful face, and I have a moment's hesitation. This is supposed to be a big deal for her, isn't it? I remember my first time with Katherine, how embarrassing it was… but what a heaven-sent relief. Deep down I know I should send her home. But the simple truth is, I don't want her to go, and I want her. What's more, I can see my desire reflected in her expression, in her darkening eyes.

"Do you want the blinds drawn?" I ask.

"I don't mind," she says. "I thought you didn't let anyone sleep in your bed."

"Who says we're going to sleep?"

"Oh." Her lips form a perfect small o. My cock hardens further. Yes, I'd like to fuck that mouth, that o. I stalk toward her like she's my prey. Oh, baby, I want to bury myself in you. Her breathing is shallow and quick. Her cheeks are rosy… she's wary, but excited. She's at my mercy, and knowing that makes me feel powerful. She has no idea what I'm going to do to her. "Let's get this jacket off, shall we?" Reaching up, I gently push her jacket off her shoulders, fold it, and place it on my chair.

"Do you have any idea how much I want you, Elena Gilbert?

Her lips part as she inhales, and I reach up to touch her cheek. Her skin is petal-soft beneath my fingertips as they glide down to her chin. She's entranced—lost—under my spell. She's already mine. It's intoxicating.

"Do you have any idea what I'm going to do to you?" I murmur, and hold her chin between my thumb and forefinger. Leaning down, I kiss her firmly, molding her lips to mine. Returning my kiss, she's soft and sweet and willing, and I have an overwhelming need to see her, all of her. I make quick work of her buttons, slowly peeling off her blouse and letting it fall to the floor. I stand back to look at her. She's wearing the pale blue bra that Taylor bought. She's stunning.

"Oh, Elena. You have the most beautiful skin, pale and flawless. I want to kiss every single inch of it." There's not a mark on her. The thought is unsettling. I want to see her marked… pink… with tiny, thin welts from a crop maybe.

She colors a delicious rose—embarrassed, no doubt. If I do nothing else, I will teach her not to be shy of her body. Reaching up, I pull her hair tie, freeing her hair. It tumbles lush and chestnut around her face, down to her breasts.

"Mmm, I like brunettes." She's lovely, exceptional, a jewel.

Holding her head, I run my fingers through her hair and pull her to me, kissing her. She moans against me and parts her lips, allowing me access to her warm, wet mouth. The sweet appreciative noise echoes through me—to the end of my cock. Her tongue shyly meets mine, tentatively probing my mouth, and for some reason, her fumbling inexperience is… hot.

She tastes luscious. Wine, grapes, and innocence—a potent, heady mix of flavors. I fold my arms tightly around her, relieved that she grips only my upper arms. With one hand in her hair, holding her in place, I run my other hand down her spine to her ass and push her against me, against my erection. She moans again. I continue to kiss her, coaxing her unschooled tongue to explore my mouth as I explore hers. My body tenses when she moves her hands up my arms—and for a moment I worry where she'll touch me next. She caresses my cheek, then strokes my hair. It's a little unnerving. But when she twists her fingers in my hair, pulling gently… Damn, that feels good.

I groan in response but can't let her continue. Before she can touch me again, I push her against the bed and drop to my knees. I want her out of these jeans—I want to strip her, arouse her some more, and… keep her hands off me. Grasping her hips, I run my tongue just north of the waistband up to her navel. She tenses and inhales sharply. Fuck, does she smell and taste good, an orchard in springtime, and I want my fill. Her hands fist in my hair once more; this I don't mind—in fact, I like it. I nip her hipbone and her grip tightens in my hair. Her eyes are closed, her mouth slack, and she's panting. As I reach up and undo the button on her jeans, she opens her eyes and we study each other. Slowly I ease down the zipper and move my hands around her ass. Slipping my hands inside the waistband, my palms against the soft cheeks of her behind, I slide her jeans off.

I can't stop myself. I want to shock her… test her boundaries right now. Not taking my eyes off hers, I deliberately lick my lips, then lean forward and run my nose up the center of her panties, inhaling her arousal. Closing my eyes, I savor her. Lord, she's enticing.

"You smell so good." My voice is husky with want and my jeans are becoming extremely uncomfortable. I need to take them off. Gently, I push her onto the bed and, grasping her right foot, I make quick work of removing her sneaker and sock. To tease her I run my thumbnail along her instep and she writhes gratifyingly on the bed, her mouth open, watching me, fascinated. Leaning down, I trace my tongue along her instep, and my teeth graze the little line that my thumbnail has left in its wake. She lies back on the bed, eyes closed, groaning. She's so responsive, it's delightful.

"Oh, Elena, what I could do to you," I whisper, as images of her writhing beneath me in my playroom flash through my mind: shackled to my four-poster bed, bent over the table—suspended from the cross. I could tease and torture her until she begged for release… the images make my jeans even tighter.

Hell.

Quickly I remove her other shoe and sock, and pull off her jeans. She's almost naked on my bed, her hair framing her face perfectly, her long, pale legs stretched out in invitation before me. I have to make allowances for her inexperience. But she's panting. Wanting. Her eyes fixed on me.

I've never fucked anyone in my bed before. Another first with Miss Gilbert.

"You're very beautiful, Elena Gilbert. I can't wait to be inside you." My voice is gentle; I want to tease her some more, find out what she does know. "Show me how you pleasure yourself," I ask, gazing intently down at her.

She frowns.

"Don't be coy, Elena, show me." Part of me wants to spank the shyness out of her.

She shakes her head. "I don't know what you mean." Is she playing games?

"How do you make yourself come? I want to see."

She remains mute. Clearly I've shocked her again. "I don't," she mutters finally, her voice breathless. I gaze at her in disbelief. Even I used to masturbate, before Katherine sunk her claws into me.

She's probably never had an orgasm—though I find this hard to believe. Whoa. I'm responsible for her first fuck and her first orgasm. I'd better make this good.

"Well, we'll have to see what we can do about that." I'm going to make you come like a freight train, baby.

Hell—she's probably never seen a naked man, either. Not taking my eyes off hers, I undo the top button on my jeans and ease them onto the floor, though I can't risk taking my shirt off, because she might touch me.

But if she did… it wouldn't be so bad… would it? Being touched?

I banish the thought before the darkness surfaces, and grasping her ankles, I spread her legs. Her eyes widen and her hands clench my sheets.

Yes. Keep your hands there, baby.

I crawl slowly up the bed, between her legs. She squirms beneath me.

"Keep still," I tell her, and lean down to kiss the delicate skin of her inner thigh. I trail kisses up her thighs, over her panties, across her belly, nipping and sucking as I go. She writhes beneath me. "We're going to have to work on keeping you still, baby." If you'll let me.

I'll teach her to just absorb the pleasure and not move, intensifying every touch, every kiss, every nip. The thought alone is enough to make me want to bury myself in her, but before I do, I want to know how responsive she is. So far she hasn't held back. She's allowing me free rein over her body. She's not hesitant at all. She wants this… she really wants this. I dip my tongue into her navel and continue my leisurely journey north, savoring her. I shift, lying beside her, one leg still between hers. My hand ghosts up her body, over her hip, up her waist, on to her breast. Gently I cup her breast, trying to gauge her reaction. She doesn't stiffen. She doesn't stop me… she trusts me. Can I extend her trust to letting me have complete dominion over her body… over her? The thought is exhilarating.

"You fit my hand perfectly, Elena." Dipping my finger into her bra cup, I jerk it down, freeing her breast. The nipple is small, rose pink, and it's already hard. I drag the cup down so that the fabric and underwire rest under her breast, forcing it upward. I repeat the process with the other cup and watch, fascinated, as her nipples grow under my steady gaze. Whoa… I haven't even touched her yet.

"Very nice," I whisper in awed appreciation, and blow gently on the nearest nipple, watching in delight as it hardens and extends. Elena closes her eyes and arches her back.

Keep still, baby, just absorb the pleasure, it will feel so much more intense.

Blowing on one nipple, I roll the other gently between my thumb and forefinger. She grasps the sheets tightly as I lean down and suck—hard. Her body bows again and she cries out.

"Let's see if we can make you come like this," I whisper, and I don't stop. She starts to whimper.

Oh, yes, baby… feel this. Her nipples extend farther and she starts grinding her hips, around and around. Keep still, baby. I will teach you to keep still.

"Oh, please," she begs. Her legs stiffen. It's working. She's close. I continue my lascivious assault. Concentrating on each nipple, watching her response, sensing her pleasure, is driving me to distraction. Lord, I want her.

"Let go, baby," I murmur, and pull her nipple with my teeth. She cries out as she climaxes.

Yes! I move quickly to kiss her, capturing her cries in my mouth. She's breathless and panting, lost in her pleasure… Mine. I own her first orgasm, and I'm ridiculously pleased by the thought.

"You're very responsive. You're going to have to learn to control that, and it's going to be so much fun teaching you how." I can't wait… but right now, I want her. All of her. I kiss her once more and let my hand travel down her body, down to her vulva. I hold her, feeling her heat. Slipping my index finger through the lace of her panties, I slowly circle around her… fuck, she's soaking.

"You're so deliciously wet. God, I want you." I thrust my finger inside her, and she cries out. She's hot and tight and wet, and I want her. I thrust into her again, taking her cries into my mouth. I press my palm to her clitoris… pushing down… pushing around. She cries out and writhes beneath me. Fuck, I want her—now. She's ready. Sitting up, I drag her panties off, then my boxers, and reach for a condom. I kneel up between her legs, pushing them farther apart. Elena watches me with—what? Trepidation? She's probably never seen an erect penis before.

"Don't worry. You expand, too," I mutter. Stretching out over her, I put my hands on either side of her head, taking my weight on my elbows. God, I want her… but I check she's still keen. "You really want to do this?" I ask.

For fuck's sake, please don't say no.

"Please," she begs.

"Pull your knees up," I instruct her. This'll be easier. Have I ever been so aroused? I can barely contain myself. I don't get it… it must be her.

Why?

Salvatore, focus!

I position myself so I can take her at my whim. Her eyes are open wide, imploring me. She really wants this… as much as I do. Should I be gentle and prolong the agony, or do I go for it?

I go for it. I need to possess her.

"I'm going to fuck you now, Miss Gilbert. Hard."

One thrust and I'm inside her. F. U. C. K.

She's so fucking tight. She cries out.

Shit! I've hurt her. I want to move, to lose myself in her, and it takes all my restraint to stop. "You're so tight. You okay?" I ask, my voice a hoarse, anxious whisper, and she nods, eyes wider. She's like heaven on earth, so tight around me. And even though her hands are on my forearms, I don't care. The darkness is slumbering, perhaps because I've wanted her for so long. I've never felt this desire, this… hunger before. It's a new feeling, new and shiny. I want so much from her: her trust, her obedience, her submission. I want her to be mine, but right now… I'm hers.

"I'm going to move, baby." My voice is strained as I ease back slowly. It's such an extraordinary, exquisite feeling: her body cradling my cock. I push into her again and claim her, knowing no one has before. She whimpers.

I stop. "More?"

"Yes," she breathes, after a moment.

This time I thrust into her more deeply.

"Again?" I plead, as sweat beads on my body.

"Yes."

Her trust in me—it's suddenly overwhelming, and I start to move, really move. I want her to come. I will not stop until she comes. I want to own this woman, body and soul. I want her clenching around me.

Fuck—she starts meeting every thrust, matching my rhythm. See how well we fit together, Elena? I grasp her head, holding her in place while I claim her body and kiss her hard, claiming her mouth. She stiffens beneath me… fuck yes. Her orgasm is close.

"Come for me, Elena," I demand, and she cries out as she's consumed, tipping her head back, her mouth open, her eyes closed… and just the sight of her ecstasy is enough. I explode in her, losing all sense and reason, as I call out her name and come violently inside her.

When I open my eyes I'm panting, trying to catch my breath, and we're forehead to forehead and she's staring up at me. Fuck. I'm undone.

I plant a swift kiss on her forehead and pull out of her and lie down beside her.

She winces as I withdraw, but other than that she looks okay.

"Did I hurt you?" I ask, and I tuck her hair behind her ear, because I don't want to stop touching her.

Elena beams with incredulity. "You are asking me if you hurt me?" And for a moment I don't know why she's grinning.

Oh. My playroom.

"The irony is not lost on me," I mutter. Even now she confounds me. "Seriously, are you okay?"

She stretches out beside me, testing her body and teasing me with an amused but sated expression.

"You haven't answered me," I growl. I need to know if she found that enjoyable. All the evidence points to a "yes"—but I need to hear it from her. While I'm waiting for her reply I remove the condom. Lord, I hate these things. I discard it discreetly on the floor.

She peers up at me. "I'd like to do that again," she says with a shy giggle.

What?

Again?

Already?

"Would you now, Miss Gilbert?" I kiss the corner of her mouth. "Demanding little thing, aren't you? Turn on your front."

That way I know you won't touch me.

She gives me a brief sweet smile, then rolls onto her stomach. My cock stirs with approval. I unhook her bra and run my hand down her back to her pert behind. "You really have the most beautiful skin," I say, as I brush her hair off her face and push her legs apart. Gently I plant soft kisses on her shoulder.

"Why are you wearing your shirt?" she asks.

She's so damn inquisitive. While she's on her front I know she can't touch me, so I lean back and pull my shirt over my head and let it drop to the floor. Fully naked, I lie on top of her. Her skin is warm, and melts against mine.

Hmm… I could get used to this.

"So you want me to fuck you again?" I whisper in her ear, kissing her. She squirms deliciously against me.

Oh, this will never do. Keep still, baby.

I skim my hand down her body to the back of her knee, then hitch it up high, parting her legs wide so that she's spread beneath me. Her breath catches and I hope it's with anticipation. She stills beneath me.

Finally!

I palm her ass as I ease my weight onto her. "I'm going to take you from behind, ELena." With my other hand I grab her hair at the nape and tug gently, holding her in place. She cannot move. Her hands are helpless and splayed against the sheets, out of harm's way.

"You are mine," I whisper. "Only mine. Don't forget it."

With my free hand I move from her ass to her clitoris and begin circling slowly.

Her muscles flex beneath me as she tries to move, but my weight keeps her in place. I run my teeth along her jawline. Her sweet fragrance lingers over the scent of our coupling. "You smell divine," I whisper, as I nuzzle behind her ear.

She starts to circle her hips against my moving hand.

"Keep still," I warn.

Or I might stop…

Slowly I insert my thumb inside her and circle it around and around, taking particular care to stroke the front wall of her vagina.

She groans and tenses beneath me, trying to move again.

"You like this?" I tease, and my teeth trace her outer ear. I don't stop my fingers from tormenting her clitoris, but I begin to ease my thumb in and out of her. She stiffens, but can't move.

She groans loudly, her eyes scrunched up tight.

"You're so wet, so quickly. So responsive. Oh, Elena, I like that. I like that a lot." Right. Let's see how far you'll go.

I withdraw my thumb from her vagina. "Open your mouth," I order, and when she does I thrust my thumb between her lips. "See how you taste. Suck me, baby." She sucks my thumb… hard.

Fuck.

And for a moment I imagine it's my cock in her mouth.

"I want to fuck your mouth, Elena, and I will soon." I'm breathless. She closes her teeth around me, biting me hard.

Ow! Fuck.

I grip her hair tightly and she loosens her mouth. "Naughty, sweet girl." My mind flits through a number of punishments worthy of such a bold move that, if she were my submissive, I could inflict on her. My cock expands to bursting at the thought. I release her and sit back on my knees.

"Stay still, don't move." I grab another condom from my bedside table, rip open the foil, and roll the latex over my erection.

Watching her, I see that she's still, except for the rise and fall of her back as she pants in anticipation.

She's gorgeous.

Leaning over her again, I grasp her hair and hold her so she can't move her head.

"We're going to go real slow this time, Elena."

She gasps, and gently I ease into her until I can go no farther.

Fuck. She feels good.

As I ease out I circle my hips and slowly slip into her again. She whimpers and her limbs tense beneath me as she tries to move.

Oh no, baby.

I want you still.

I want you to feel this.

Take all the pleasure.

"You feel so good," I tell her, and repeat the move again, circling my hips as I go. Slowly. In. Out. In. Out. Her insides start to tremble.

"Oh no, baby, not yet."

No way am I letting you come.

Not when I'm enjoying this so much.

"Oh, please," she cries.

"I want you sore, baby." I pull out and sink into her again. "Every time you move tomorrow, I want you to be reminded that I've been here. Only me. You are mine."

"Please, Stefan," she begs.

"What do you want, Elena? Tell me." I continue the slow torture. "Tell me."

"You, please." She's desperate.

She wants me.

Good girl.

I increase the pace and her insides begin to quiver, responding immediately.

Between each thrust I utter one word. "You. Are. So. Sweet. I. Want. You. So. Much. You. Are. Mine." Her limbs tremble with the strain of keeping still. She's on the edge. "Come for me, baby," I growl.

And on command she shudders around me as her orgasm rips through her and she screams my name into the mattress.

My name on her lips is my undoing, and I climax and collapse on top of her.

"Fuck. Elena," I whisper, drained yet elated. I pull out of her almost immediately and roll onto my back. She curls up at my side, and as I pull off the condom, she closes her eyes and falls asleep.


End file.
